Mirrors In The Mind
by Etharei
Summary: The dungeons of Barad-dur are vast and deep, and not all evils departed with the destruction of Sauron. An ancient evil is no longer bound. [Update: Elladan is up and talking, Eowyn has been found, and Gimli realises that he doesn't know what he's getting
1. Prologue

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Disclaimer: All recognisable characters and places are the property of The Author, JRR Tolkien.

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Mirrors in the Mind

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"Yet many of the Quendi were filled with dread at [Oromë's] coming; and this was the doing of Melkor. For by after-knowledge the wise declare that Melkor, ever watchful, was first aware of the coming of the Quendi, and sent shadows and evil spirits to spy on them and waylay them. So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and they were afraid."   
– Of the Coming of the Elves, Quenta Silmarillion

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Prologue

A haunting melody echoed through the ancient chamber of crystal, and for a moment its sole inhabitant felt the burden of the long, long years, as memories of a time before the Darkness danced before him. The images woke the sorrow and longing within him, yet this only strengthened his voice.

Suddenly he heard a noise from one of the chambers in the outer north ring, and the song faltered. But he took up the melody once again when he learned it was only one of the fouler _niri_. He savoured the delight in his heart upon hearing the soaring notes of the song; it had been long indeed since he had known anything besides darkness and fear. So long he had wondered if he had only dreamt his past life in a world without the Shadow.

His eyes still darted to the various entrances to his chamber; a habit borne of centuries' worth of fear.

But the Master was gone. 

He was free.

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Nay, not free. He shook his head. _Never free._ For all His conviction of invulnerability, the Master always made sure his little prisoners could never really escape Him, once He had touched them. The Shadow had seeped into his soul, and he would never be free of its curse. The Master twisted all that was good and fair. The Master delighted in turning the gift of Ilûvatar into a doom. The Master wished to bend all beneath His will. What did not bend, he chained and twisted.

His hands went to the thin black collar around his neck. It burned to the touch, though his skin was unmarked. It had no clasp or hinges, for the Master had placed it there even as the metal glowed hot, melding the two ends as the elf had screamed at the pain. The Master hadn't expected him to survive, yet he had. 

His hands traveled to his face, and felt the deep scars there. Not that he needed to feel them to know they were there; his reflection was on at least three crystal surfaces no matter where he was in his prison. The Master seemed pleased that he would have to see his deformed features for the rest of his existence. 

But the Master never understood the endurance of life. He who had once been fair and mighty even amongst the fairest and mightiest had not bent. He rejected the Master utterly, heart and soul, though his body succumbed. The Master had wanted him to hate, had watched to see what could stir his ire. The fall of his city, and the death of his kin. Hate had entered his heart then, yet he managed to hide this, and in time he no longer hated even the Master. 

So the Master imprisoned him, making use of his inane strength to guard His dark realm. He had been forgotten, only one of many amusements, fated to spend his days cut off from tree and star. 

And now the Master was gone.

He had felt it, had known when the accursed fortress fell, and the wearying weight of fear upon his heart had lifted. He did not dare hope overmuch, however, for the Master had been cast out before, not too long ago. Yet His will had remained then, and His presence could still be felt in the very soil. Now, He was… gone.

Still he waited. And waited. The Master was not unknown to play with his 'pets', and he knew better than most the pain that came with false hopes.

Then he had begun to sing. First in his mind, then almost involuntarily his voice had taken up the song, something he had not done of his own free will since his capture

Nothing had happened. 

He sang some more, growing ever louder, until he could hear echoes from the other chambers. He muttered the Master's name, then said it, then shouted it. 

Nothing happened.

So he began to hope.

But evil chained him still.

~*~*~


	2. Chapter One: Early Warnings

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Author's Notes: 

This story takes place around 6 years after the War of the Ring. Translations for the Sindarin are at the end of the chapter, and I apologise beforehand for grammatical errors- this will be the first time I'll be using Sindarin in any significant amount.

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Chapter One: Early Warnings

Rain fell ceaselessly through the dark night, bathing leaf and stone as the world slept. Yet even the cacophony of a thousand raindrops at a time hitting Arda could not drown out the thunderous passage of two dozen horses over the barren plains, nor sate the haste of their two dozen and one riders.

Night had fallen hours ago, and the King of Rohan idly contemplated repeating his request for a brief rest for the horses and his men. But experience told him that the diminutive being bouncing on the saddle behind him would grant him a similar answer as he had been receiving since they had set out from Rohan -. which were numerous variations on the word 'No'- and tried to content himself with silently praying that his horse would not step into a rabbit hole in the darkness and break its neck (or its riders'). If he had learned anything over the past three days, it would be that the dwarven reputation for single-minded persistence was well justified. What bothered him most- and thus what he had avoided thinking about to any great depth- was the notion that he was being dragged the length of the White Mountains, and so far he hadn't been told why.

"Gimli," he began again, determined to get an answer this time, and not give up until he did.Dwarves were not the only ones who can be persistent "Will you not at least-"

"Nay, I will not," the dwarf muttered, abruptly cutting Eomer off. Very unlike the usual Gimli he knew.

"I feel I have a right to know-"

"You will learn in due time." The dwarf's newfound skill in avoiding questions, Eomer decided, was proof that Gimli had most definitely been spending far too much time around elves. One of the dwarf's many criticisms of Legolas (and he had many) involved the impossibility of getting an answer out of the elf that Legolas did not want to give. "Ride, good King. You will see."

He supposed he could blame Aragorn for his present situation. Ever since meeting the man who would later become the King of the Reunified Kingdoms on the open fields of Rohan during the War of the Ring with his unlikely companions, Eomer had come to realise that his new friends had awoken a sense of curiosity in him that had been pressed into dormancy by the duties of a Knight of the Riddermark upon his father's death. And it was this curiousity that had somehow convinced him to take a sudden leave of his wife and hall. In his mind he went over the strange event.

~*~

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Three days earlier…

The King of Rohan was enjoying breakfast with his wife in their private dining room when a small but formidable figure stormed in unannounced. He very nearly drew his sword before he recognised the unkempt and wild-looking person to be the Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. Gimli was a frequent visitor to Edoras, and thus was widely recognised as the King's friend. The guards had seen no reason to stop him, and the look in the dwarf's intense eyes would have stemmed any questions from even forming.

"My King," the dwarf made a clumsy bow. This alerted Eomer that something was amiss, for his relations with the dwarves of Aglarond have taught him that dwarves were sticklers to propriety and civility (though they seemed to bend this rule when elves are concerned). Also, Gimli's garments were in disarray and bore evidence of travelling to Edoras in great haste. All these details Eomer observed in a second (being in the company of Aragorn had taught him something useful, at least), before giving his own formal bow.

"Gimli, my friend," he said, concerned. "Has something happened? You look as if a clan of Wargs chased you here."

Eomer's tone had been gentle, bordering on jest, but the Lord of Algarond was not in the mood for their usual friendly banter. "Eomer, we must ride to Minas Tirith immediately."

The King of Rohan blinked, wondering if he had missed something. "Your pardon, Gimli, but might I inquire as to the reason for this?"

Gimli shifted uncomfortably, muttering something under his breath. If Eomer hadn't known any better, he would have said that Gimli looked… embarrassed. But he could not think of any reason for this, and so waited patiently for the dwarf to speak.

"I… I have had… strange dreams of late." The son of Eomund barely caught the muttered words, but Gimli continued in a rush. "And last night… something evil has befallen our friends in Minas Tirith, though I fear they will know naught about it until it is too late."

He would say no more, despite Eomer's urgings, aside from stating that all will be explained once they got to the White City. Now, the King of Rohan would still reminisce at times of the carefree days of his youth, when he could saddle his horse at a whim to ride flat-out over the wide fields of his home just for the sheer joy of freedom. But as orc-threat grew, such excursions became less and less frequent, and when the throne unexpectedly landed on his young shoulders, he had thought that such days were far behind him. Who had ever heard of a King suddenly abandoning his kingdom to go on a wild goose-chase over the hills?

~*~

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Of course, he thought ruefully, _I have done exactly that. And at the bidding of a dwarf! I wonder what Eowyn would say of this._

Thus he had found himself haring south with a company of three and two score of his personal guard, including his most trusted captain and friend, Farhall, and the Lord of Aglarond clinging to his back. He supposed several factors influenced him into finally agreeing to accompany Gimli - who had insisted, for some reason, that Eomer's presence was crucial. First and foremost was the haste and anxiety in the dwarf's eyes and voice, for it took a great deal to ruffle the dwarven representative to the Fellowship of the Ring and closest friend of a son of Thranduil. The fact that Gimli felt he needed to ask for help also alarmed Eomer, for his people loathed admitting they needed aid. He remembered one of his first visits to the dwarven colony in the Glittering Caves, in which he had inquired about a sudden rush of activity. Gimli casually explained that some of the dwarves had 'come upon' a sudden opening near the end of one of the tunnels, and at that moment were awaiting to be rescued after dropping the length of twenty paces deeper into Arda. Eomer's incredulous stare and offer for aid had only been greeted by a shrug and a "My thanks for your offer, but they should be out by nightfall".

Another factor was Gimli's mention of dreams. Elves dream. Aragorn and Imrahil dream. During the years of enduring Grima Wormtongue's omnipresent eyes, even Eomer dreamt uneasy dreams of the shadow falling over his King and people. And as far as Eomer had been concerned, dwarves dreamt of jewels and vast mansions of stone and wealth, if they dreamed at all, but little of significance besides. After thinking about it, Eomer resorted to his usual tactic of blaming this irregularity in the natural order of things on the Gimli's prolonged exposure to a certain lord of Ithilien. In any case, the significance was still there: if a _dwarf_ dreamt of it, it must be something of great importance indeed. It was unfortunate, however, that because it was most unusual, Gimli was unlikely to share the contents of this dream with anyone besides Legolas and Aragorn. And even less chance of anyone forcing it out of him.

Strangely enough, it was another minor yet life-changing factor that had finally convinced Eomer to see Gimli safely to Gondor, if only to check with Aragorn that the dwarf was mentally healthy. When he was seeing to brisk preparations for their journey, Eomer wondered how the dwarf could have come to Edoras so quickly from the Caves if he had only left that morning, and he idly asked the dwarf about it.

"I set out at dawn, and it seems that you named Swift well."

Eomer had just opened his mouth to call to give the order to mount when the full implications of Gimli's words hit him. For a moment he stood there, gaping at the dwarf. 

"You…" he said in disbelief. "You… you _rode_ Swift?"

At the dwarf's short nod, Eomer realised that gaping was not very kingly looking, and instead shouted for his men to hurry. Still, anything that could convince Gimli to even mount a horse (Swift was actually a large pony, but Gimli had insisted on calling her a horse) was worth worrying over. A dwarf dreaming, riding a horse, then convincing a King to ride with him… Eomer was sure that even the return of Sauron and the dark powers of old would have elicited such behaviour.

Now, soaked to the bone with doubts growing in his mind with every league, he wondered if he himself hadn't gone mad. He was sure his men thought so, but they would follow him to the pits of Orodruin if he let them. He concluded that he would leave the business of explaining their sudden appearance to Aragorn to Gimli.

To his relief, the White City finally came to view in the distance.

~*~

"Open the Gate!" Unfortunately, the rain took a lot of volume out of his full-body bellow, but Eomer's slight cringe told him that it was loud enough to carry to the watching guards and gate-wardens. If not, Gimli son of Gloin had designed and supervised the building of the new Gate, and knew a spot where one can tap softly on the mithril surface, and the sound reverberated enough to be heard by all within half a league's proximity. And he was intending on hammering his fists on it.

To his great surprise, a lithe figure detached himself from the knot of guards huddled beneath one of the watch-towers, sheltering from the rain. For a moment, he thought that it was Legolas, for the figure moved with the signature grace of the elves, but his hopes were dashed when he saw that the hair poking out from beneath the figure's cloak was dark. It took another moment for him to determine it was one of the sons of Elrond, from their countenance and the way they moved. And as Elrohir rarely carried a sword…

"Elladan," he said in greeting as he unceremoniously let gravity remove him from Eomer's steed. Normally he and the sons of Elrond would partake in some light banter (which would continue for the duration of their time together), but tonight was very different. So much so that he barely thought on how strange it was that Elladan had been at the Gate. It was unsettlingly convenient, for Gimli had expected to have to force his way to the Citadel to get an answer to his simple question. "Where is Aragorn?"

The Lord of Imladris froze for a moment, and Gimli felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. What little he could see of the elf's face under the hood in the flickering torchlight from the guards was unreadable. The grey gaze regarded Gimli for a moment before travelling to Gimli's companions. The elf's eyes widened as he recognised the King of Rohan.

"It is well! They are the Rohirrim!" he shouted to the wary and sodden guards before returning his attention to Gimli. "Well met, Master Dwarf, though I must say the circumstances are-"

"My apologies, Lord Elladan, but where is Aragorn?"

The Lord of Imladris' eyes became troubled. "He has gone for a state visit to Ithilien. We are expecting him back tomorrow."

Upon hearing those words, Gimli decided to exercise the verbal creativity of his race with launching into a whole new repertoire of dwarven curses. Trying to ignore the cold bite of fear in his heart, he turned his gaze to Eomer with a silent plea. The King of Rohan understood and groaned audibly, but he dismounted to help Gimli back up onto his war-horse. 

A slender hand seized his shoulder. "Gimli, why have you come?"

Unable to meet Elladan's eyes, Gimli only answered with "'Tis a matter concerning Aragorn, and I would not speak of it to any but him."

As he spoke, images from his recurring dream rose unbidden in his mind. Not for the first time, he wished for his elven friend's presence so that he could have someone to share this alien experience with. Dwarves _never_ had premonitions, nor did they pay much heed to those experienced by others. His people were practical, if to a fault, and such associations with forces undetected by the physical senses were considered the domain of elves. A dreamer had no place in the unstable world beneath tree and sun, and Gimli was anything but a dreamer. He shuddered to think of what his father would think of his actions over the past few days. But though he was convinced that he was as much a dwarf as he had been 6 years ago, he had encountered forces that dealt with the heart and mind rather than the physical body, and could no longer ignore the fact that there were powers in Arda that existed beyond the physical realm. It was yet another subtle yet significant change in Gimli, and he was sure Legolas was to be blamed for it.

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Aye, but if I do not move from this place, fouler things than my recriminations will fall upon that foolish creature.

"Gimli."

Obviously Elladan would not let go of him until Gimli explained himself sufficiently. "I have received warning of fell things about to befall your brother, Elladan. Now let me get to them so I may warn them!"

The elf's eyes widened, and surprise showed on his face. "_Gernich in oltha_?" It sounded more like a statement than a question.

Reluctant to reveal this (as he still did not know for sure about his feelings in regard to such an un-dwarvish experience) but painfully aware that there was little time for denial and arguments, Gimli nodded. His long association with Legolas enabled him to read the wonder, suspicion, alarm and dread that flitted in rapid succession on the elf-lord's face. He dearly wanted to find out how Elladan had known he could understand a bit of Sindarin (he made a mental note to himself to thank the elf later for understanding his discomfort at others knowing of his dreams, and thus asking Gimli about it in the elven tongue), but the need in his heart to be elsewhere only doubled upon thinking of the one who had taught him the language, and his curiosity was forgotten in the wake of that need.

"_Noro_, _elvellon_," Elladan said shakily, directing his elven gaze at the direction of Ithilien. "I will follow when I can. Ride!"

The urgency in the fair elven voice only doubled the knot of fear in his heart, and before he knew it he was back on the steed of Rohan, his arms tight around Eomer's waist. The doubt in the King of Rohan's eyes was gone, replaced by anxiety and wariness, as they set out into the night again. The rest of the Rohirrim followed; Eomer had given no order, but it was their solemn duty to protect their King and captain, and for this duty they would ignore the weariness of their bodies and the complaints of the horses they held as dear as kin.

Into the empty night they raced, to be swiftly joined by an elven steed as they traveled beyond the sight of the outer wall of the Tower of the Guard.

~*~

Dawn broke. 

Long sleepless nights were taking their toll on him. He felt as if the whole Misty Mountains' worth of fog and precipitation had decided to take up residence within his mind, and he was painfully aware of the decreasing fluidity of his movements. Doubtless his twin would have much to say to him about his inability to care for himself, but at that moment Elrohir was somewhere south of the Shire, and with luck would not know of how close Elladan was pushing himself to exhaustion.

Nevertheless, he was sure that Gimli, at least, would notice his less-than-perfect state, and for this reason he was careful to keep his horse behind the dwarf. Fortunately, Gimli was too intent on getting to Estel (or else dwelling on something troubling his mind) to look behind him.

He would have smiled at the thought of the strange beingif his body hadn't been so weary. Imladris had more of a dealing with the various races of Middle-Earth than any of the other elven realms, and Elladan had seen firsthand that as much hostility as his people held against the dwarves were returned in kind by the children of Aulë. His first encounter with Legolas and Gimli together, along with Aragorn and Boromir, (curiously enough, the hobbits and Mithrandir stood between all of them) as the Fellowship set out from Rivendell, had made him wonder if, as well as carrying the hope of Middle-earth, the representative of the elves, dwarves and men also bore the grievances of their respective races. Elrohir had commented on this also, adding that even Mithrandir would be hard-pressed to prevent a minitiaure re-enactment of the Five Battles of Beleriand.

And yet, when they next saw the remainders of the Fellowship as they caught up with them in Rohan with Halbarad and the Rangers, he was astonished to see how at ease Legolas and Gimli had become with each other. They had been arguing, which Elladan had expected. But then they suddenly burst into laughter clapping each other on the arm, which Elladan had not expected. Then Legolas had spotted the confusion and bewilderment on the son of Elrond's face, pointed it out to Gimli, and they burst out laughing again, before sauntering off and immersing into another seemingly heated debate.

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And it has been that way since. He allowed himself a small smile. _A miracle more wondrous I did not expect to find in the midst of war and the fading of the Eldar._

He wondered if he should tell Gimli of the time he had come upon the pair in Minas Tirith after the War of the Ring 6 years ago. He had been critically examining his foster-brother and sister's future home when he happened to hear their voices coming from one of the gardens. Careful so as not to be seen, he had taken a peek, and watched in wonderment as Gimli recited a list of Sindarin conjugations under Legolas' tutelage. Fortunately for the dwarf, Elladan knew him well enough then and knew to keep his discovery between him and Elrohir.

So deep in thought was he that it took him some time to even register the fact that they had entered the once-prosperous land of Ithilien. The garden of Gondor was beginning to bloom once more, under the loving care of the elves, and the ever-present scent of herbs cheered Elladan's heart, reminding him of distant Rivendell. So weary was he that he spent long minutes in a semblance of elven sleep, his tranquil surroundings helping him to briefly enter the world of waking dreams.

But he did not wish for the men to notice his deteriorating wellbeing, so before long he regretfully pulled himself back into consciousness. Before he could fully come to waking, however, he felt the horses stop, and beneath him Carn stopped in response, not needing his rider's directions. 

He blinked. Slightly ahead of him, Gimli and Eomer had dismounted, and the dwarf was standing completely still, with his eyes closed, seeming to be listening to something. Then his eyes flew open. Guided by a sense beyond sight, sense, scent, touch or hearing (or so it seemed to Elladan), Gimli raced to one side of the path, disappearing beneath the resinous trees. At the same time, Elladan's mind finally supplied him with the realisation that the reason his surroundings had looked unfamiliar was because they had taken one of the many less-used routes to Emyn Arnen.. 

Nimbly leaping off Carn, he joined Eomer in following the dwarf. So unexpectedly did Gimli stop that they both collided with the stocky being, nearly ending up on the ground had Gimli not been as stiff as stone. Then they saw it.

Carnage.

Elladan had seen firsthand the handiwork of orcs upon their living victims. He still remembered finding his mother after she had been taken captive. He himself had been subject before to the twisted amusements of orcs, goblins, and men. He was no stranger to death and torture, though he would never get used to such horrors of battle.

But that morning the breakfast, lunch and dinner of the past week announced an urgent desire to retrace their steps into the outside world. He felt his face pale, and his eyes involuntarily averted.

Yet the image would haunt him for the rest of his days

There was barely a place he could rest his eyes that was not stained by blood. So much blood. His keen senses were reeling with the smell of death, and the very trees whispered violently of the evil that had been done here. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eomer lean heavily against a tree, pale and trembling, his eyes closed.

Mutilated bodies filled a small clearing in the trees. Very few of them were whole. Horses and men had died together here. At least, the elf hoped there had been enough mercy in the world for them to have been dead before their bodies had been ruined so. Not all were on the ground, either. Blood was splattered on the barks of surrounding trees. A few bodies were actually amongst the branches. Then Elladan saw recognised the White Tree of Gondor on what little remained of the uniform on one of the bodies. Unwillingly his eyes soon determined that most of the men, if not all, had been wearing the livery of the Guard. And to his everlasting horror, he saw the banner of Elendil, the White Tree with Seven Stars, torn and fluttering upon the branch to which it had been pinned with a dagger.

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Estel's retinue.

Fear and unbelieving shock hit him. He couldn't breathe. He heard some of the Rohirrim, who had arrived shortly after them, lose the battle with their semi-digested food. He couldn't bear to see any more lifeless eyes, some of which he was beginning to recognise. But he could not leave without knowing if the man he considered his younger brother had fallen beside his men.

He forced his thoughts into a semblance of coherency, allowing his military mind free reign to analyse the grounds. 

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It was only another battle. Only another battle. He had seen many in his life. _Too many._ It was during times like these when he understood better his father's decision to put down his sword and seek instead to heal the hurts of war. Forcing himself to face to massacre, his mind eventually began the analytical process.

He blinked. Either he was far too tired, or his eyes were beginning to discern a pattern in the dead. 

The men had fought in a ring, and the highest concentration of bodies was in the centre. _Like a last stand. They gave their lives up to protect something, or in this case, someone._ The bodies up in the trees looked as if they had been thrown there, instead of attempting to flee (though Elladan wouldn't have fault any man for wanting to run from whatever horror had done this). The blood on the bark of the trees indicated that even more had been flung at the trees. Fearing what he might find, Elladan sought the centre of the ring. _Where the one they had been protecting would be._

He caught a glimmer of something green. Gingerly pushing several bodies aside, and offering a small prayer for the souls of such dedicated men, he picked up the object from the bloody ground.

It was a green stone. 

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Elessar did not fall here, the logical part of his mind told him, and he believed it, if only for the sake of his sanity. Secure in a sort of reverie, he managed to check the faces of the men in the two inner-most rings before feeling sick again. 

During his days as a Ranger of the North, Estel had been counted as one of the best trackers in Middle-Earth. Yet Elladan had been his teacher. The scout in the eldest son of Elrond continued to read and analyse the physical evidence around him to get a better picture of what had transpired. The moisture on the tree barks, the soil, and the way the blood had spread told him that it had been drizzling just before the attack occurred. The smell alone told him that this had taken place the night before. The space in the centre of the ring made it conceivable that someone else stood beside Estel, but whether he was amongst the dead or had also been taken could not be ascertained. For, just then, a sharp cry of rage and grief broke the eerie calm of the red dawn, and he turned in time to see Gimli run towards one of the bodies draped on two branches. 

The limp figure had had his hood up, as had most of the men, and any skin showing through the tattered garments was covered in dried blood. Very little of his cloak, save the upper section with the hood, remained. Elladan's keen eyes automatically checked the sleeves of what had once been a tunic; it was a habit any elven scout learned on his first decade of training, for that was where most elves put the emblems of their House and realm.

His breath caught when he made out the devices of South Ithilien, Gondor and the House of Oropher from Greenwood the Great. A strong gust of wind blew back the hood for a moment, revealing the fair but bloody elven face beneath.

Legolas' eyes were closed.

~*~*~

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"Gernig in oltha?" –"You have had dreams?"

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"Noro, elvellon!" – "Ride, elf-friend!"

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Author's Notes:

Taking a bit of a gamble as I try my hand at a slightly more serious style of writing. Reviews (including constructive criticism) are much appreciated (and needed, come to think of it). Please feel free to point out my mistakes, and I'll try my best to correct them. 


	3. Chapter Two: In the Dark

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Chapter Two: In the Dark

Arwen Undómiel was the only daughter and youngest child of Elrond, Lord of Imladris. She had spent a great many years in fair Lothlórien, particularly after the departure of her mother, under the tutelage of Celeborn and Galadriel. And now she was married to King Elessar, and was Queen to the Reunified Kingdoms. With all her training and experience in court, there were precious few on Middle-Earth that she could not handle, diplomatically or otherwise.

One of these was the oldest son of Thranduil.

Crown Prince Derinsul was an exact replica of his father, except for his eyes. He and his youngest brother, the current Lord of South Ithilien, shared the same intense blue eyes of their mother, Thranduil and the rest of their siblings had the Sindar grey-blue eyes. Unfortunately, whereas Legolas, on the outside at least, was an almost complete contradiction of his father, Derinsul followed his father in mind and mannerism. 

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If it can even be called mannerism.

Which was to say that he was exceedingly courteous to her, but scornful to all that was not elven. In his eyes, she was Lady of Imladris, and her rank as Queen of Gondor meant less than the servants in his father's hall. Elrohir, who held quite an opinion of himself, once declared to Arwen that Derinsul took insufferable arrogance to new heights, and would shave her bald if she even thought of marrying him. She had never turned a favourable eye to him. In fact, the better she got to know him, she more she came to detest him.

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Much to the relief of Ada, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Erestor, and the rest of the inhabitants of Rivendell, I'm sure.

Thankfully she had inherited her father's inscrutability and iron-grip on her calm centre, something Galadriel had honed over the centuries. Nonetheless she fervently hoped Elladan would return soon. She had been surprised to learn that he had disappeared the last night, intercepting a group of Riders of Rohan, or so the gate-wardens on duty reported. She wasn't too concerned about his wellbeing exactly; Elladan was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and if it had anything to do with Elrohir or Estel, she was certain he would have told her. Or she hoped he would. _Wouldn't he?_ The reason she wanted his presence was so that she could be spared of the Sindar elf's company, or at least have someone to suffer with her. Derinsul, and his two companions, did not wish to mingle with "mortal company" – one of their more polite terms - and spent more time with her than she thought existed in Arda. The good news was that they were heading for South Ithilien, and had only stopped by Minas Tirith out of courtesy. 

She wasn't sure if not stopping by at all would have been a greater courtesy.

She was rid of them for the moment, though. _Thank the Valar!_ They had not graced her with their presence for over an hour now, and she luxuriated in the feeling of not having to grind her teeth every three seconds. She had suggested for them to take their horses out for a ride outside the city, sensing their unease at being within stone walls too long, and they had taken up the idea with enthusiasm. 

As it turned out, it was extremely fortunate for Gondor and Greenwood that she had done so. 

As she gazed out from a large balcony, one of many in the Citadel, letting the warm wind ease her stressed mind, her keen eyes spotted the horse galloping at full speed towards the Gate. Though she was now mortal, she had not been completely bereft of her elven senses, and she recognised the rider before they entered within mortal sight. 

"Open the Gates!" she shouted to the guards below. "A rider comes! Open the Gate!" One of the men looked at her in puzzlement, bur a glare sent him running with her orders. Worry gnawing in her heart, the Queen of Gondor quickly changed and ran out of the Citadel. One advisor had once commented that it was improper for a lady, much less a Queen, to be seen running through the streets amongst the 'common' folk. Said advisor was quickly educated on why no sane elf would even think of not allowing an elf-maiden from bearing arms and standing beside their male counter-parts in battle. And that was before her brothers and Legolas found out. _Not to mention Estel._

It was nice to be loved so.

Nevertheless, she still drew stares as she raced to the Gates on foot, with the unbelievable speed of her former people. She did not care, though, for first and foremost in her mind was what she had seen from the balcony.

__

For the love of Elbereth, she thought even as she ran. _Please let me be mistaken._ It was the first she had wished that her sight was not so acute.

It appeared that her orders reached the Gate in time, for before she could get there a powerful warhorse appeared and galloped right past her, heading towards the sixth ring of the City. _One of the Mearas, from the look of him_. The other two followed several minutes later, less magnificent steeds slowing and trembling from exhaustion. Aware that their mounts were on the verge of collapse, their riders reluctantly checked them to a walk, rousing angry mutterings from a small figure behind a Rider of Rohan. She saw Elladan lean slightly out of his saddle as he spotted her, holding out a hand as they passed. Grabbing her brother's hand, she nimble leaped onto the saddle in front of him.

"'Adan, Derinsul is here," she said, unwilling to think of the one whom Éomer had been carrying. "He is out riding, but he will be back 'ere long." Elladan groaned audibly, though his mind seemed intent on other things.

"He must not see Legolas," Elladan muttered, his brows furrowing. There was a look in his eyes that Arwen recognised…

"Elladan, where is Estel?"

Her stomach turned to ice when Elladan didn't answer. "_Muindor_?"

No. _Elbereth, no._

"I think he lives still," he finally said, not meeting her eyes. "They were ambushed. Estel was not amongst the dead."

"By whom?" 

"We do not know." Something else troubled Elladan, or so Arwen could tell. 

For some days now she had noticed that he looked as tired as she had ever seen him, reminding her of the stressful times before the War of the Ring when the shadow of Mordor began growing once more. Her brothers were around a century her senior, and by the time she was old enough to notice such things, even Elrohir was losing the innocence of his childhood with the growing need for more fighting elves. She had always thought that though their father was exceedingly proud of his sons' many accomplishments and mastery of weapons, the Lord of Imldaris would not have been displeased had they not chosen war as their craft. She herself wished at times that she could have known her brothers before the grimness of facing and inflicting death had entered their eyes. 

And now, Elladan's eyes looked… haunted. "It was a massacre, dear sister. A _massacre_. They did not stand a chance. It was… it was worse than orc-work." His eyes flickered anxiously to the horses riding in front of them. "By fate or fortune Legolas lived still, and he may slip from us yet."

"Not if it is within my power." Anger rose within her now, outrage at whoever was responsible for this. Very little roused the ire of the elven Queen, but attacks on those she loved she took most to heart. Then some of Elladan's other words hit her. "The Guards?"

Elladan shook his head. "All dead. Each and every one. I can only hope they had died before… They died defending Estel. To the last man. I counted the full guard of fifteen. None tried to run."

"They loved him," Arwen could only whisper. "They swore to protect him."

"And they gave their life for it. Honor be theirs. Estel chose well."

She bowed her head in grief. Though the royal couple had not relished the idea of having personal bodyguards, it was part of being King and Queen, so they lived with it. Eventually, the various men Estel had personally picked for the position had become like an extended family. They had been good men, fiercely loyal to her husband and herself, and almost all had families of their own. She knew most of their wives, and had played with their children. In the privacy of the Citadel, more often than not she would find Estel drinking with them, singing them a song or giving advice where it was asked for. She recalled the names of those that had accompanied her husband to Ithilien, murmurring a small prayer to Ilûvatar for their souls. How could she face their families and comrades, and tell them that such brave men had died defending her husband?

__

They were good men. Eru have mercy.

As great as her grief was, and the even greater fear for her husband, the present situation required a stable frame of mind from the daughter of Elrond. The horses came to a grateful stop as they reached the courtyard of the Houses of Healing. It appeared that Éomer had already gone in, and had earlier given the order for the Rider who had accompanied them to see to the horses. Gimli jumped from the back of the Rider as soon as he saw the Houses, landed with a grunt, and raced into the main entrance. Handing the reins of his horse to the Rider, Elladan and Arwen hurried to follow them.

But not quickly enough, for Arwen's sharp ears heard the shouts from the three figures running towards them as only elves could. She did not need the flash of gold hair to know that things were going to deteriorate very quickly if Derinsul even glimpsed his brother. Thranduil was overly protective of his youngest son, yet some memorable experiences in Rivendell involving Legolas and Estel told her that Derinsul took this protectiveness to new extremes. He would not trust human healers to tend Legolas. He might have been persuaded to trust Estel – Arwen felt a pang of fear and loss at the thought of her husband -, for he had seen Estel tend his brother before, but no other mortal.

Sighing and sending a long-suffering look to her eldest brother - who, despite the gravity of the situation, looked torn between amusement and trepidation – she motioned for them to continue one inside whilst she dealt with the newcomers, mentally preparing herself. A war between Greenwood and Gondor was the last thing she needed.

"We hear that a small party has just arrived, my Lady," said Derinsul as he approached, glancing at the entrance to the Houses of Healing behind Arwen. She stood on the courtyard, seemingly at ease, yet also effectively barring the entrance to the House.

"Yes, my brother returns from Ithilien," she said carefully. Galadriel had taught her well in the use of ambiguity. The Crown Prince lifted an eyebrow.

"I know not of his errand." Which was true. Elladan had yet to give an explanation. "But he came back with an injured person, and I deemed that questions can wait until the soldier is seen to." So far she had avoided outright lying, which would save a lot of trouble later. Derinsul would have to be told, of course, but not when Legolas lay in such a critical condition. 

Fortunately the elf seemed satisfied, at least for the moment, though doubtless he intended to interrogate Elladan himself. _And that will be 'Adan's problem._

Derinsul did not move, however, apparently waiting to accompany her back to the Citadel. She could not go into the House with the Greenwood elves trailing behind her, but she was reluctant to leave Legolas. She finally decided that she could help best by leading the elves away from the Houses. Besides, she needed to fully absorb what Elladan had told her, as well as try to figure out who could be responsible for the attack. In times of doubt and unknown danger, such as this, she would often follow her father's example.

Let us see if the library has some answers.

~*~

Once Éomer, Elladan, Gimli, Legolas, and Ioreth were all in the small ward, Elladan warily looked back at the way they came, earning a curious glance from Ioreth. But there were far more pressing things at hand, and highest in the list was the one Éomer laid gently on the soft mattress. 

Legolas was, in short, a mess. Éomer did not know, and was reluctant to find out, if the blood that covered the elf – even his normally sun-gold hair – was Legolas' or that of the other men. He hoped it was the latter, for he doubted even elves could survive so much blood loss. Where the blood was not as thick, he could see dark purple bruises. Both arms were at the wrong angles, as well as an ankle. And his eyes were closed, something that happened only if an elf was greviously injured, or dead.

But he still breathed. Éomer needed little help to recall the events of that morning, and the scene of carnage where Aragorn's Guards had made their last stand. He had wondered how Elladan and Gimli could bear to walk amongst the gore of mutilated bodies, and had been startled when Gimli ran shouting to a body amongst the branches of a tree. He could remember his horror at recognising the unmoving form to be the Lord of the elves of South Ithilien. His eyes closed, Legolas appeared to be one of the more fortunate ones. At least half of the Guards were not even whole. 

Gimli had screamed in a deafening rage that Éomer was sure could be heard in the Shire. Fortunately the King of Rohan (with some of his men) managed to restrain the wrathful dwarf as Elladan nimbly climbed onto the tree for a closer inspection. Éomer himself was beginning to feel the tendrils of grief as the shock and horror wore off. Legolas had been a friend and comrade-in-arms, and it was a great loss to Middle-Earth for such a great and fair elf, as well as being one of the Nine Walkers, to die in an ambush – for that was what it must have been – by an unknown foe. 

Balanced precariously on a higher branch, the Lord of Imladris gingerly lifted Legolas' hood. His eyes had widened in shock and wonder, and he cried out "He lives! Legolas is alive!"

There was a stunned silence. Then men and dwarf were moving quickly, as Elladan carefully extracted Legolas from the tree. The horses refused to come near the bodies, even though Éomer himself spoke soothing words to them, so Legolas had to be brought to them. And as Éomer's mount, Grace, was the swiftest of the horses, Legolas was hoisted up to him. Elladan, of course, would go, and there was no question of Gimli going with them. Leaving Farhall in command, with the order to stay where they were and do what they could for the dead until Éomer returned or sent someone, three already-weary horses set out at full gallop towards Minas Tirith.

Now… if the grimness in Ioreth's eyes were anything to go by, Legolas may still be lost. The elf's breathing was far too slow and shallow. He was yet to respond to any outside stimuli. He had not even moved, save for the rise and fall of his chest.

Brisk orders from Ioreth sent the man, dwarf and elf off to fetch water, bandages, herbs, and whatever she may need. In the Houses of Healing, Ioreth was a much more important person than the King of Rohan, Lord of Aglarond or Lord of Imladris. She was also one of the few who knew how to treat elves, for most of them time Aragorn tended any injured elf himself.

__

Aragorn. Though he had recognised the men as of the Guard of Gondor, the full extent of what their presence meant only hit him when they were racing towards the White City. Fearing the answer, he managed to ask Elladan about his foster-brother over the thunder of horses' hooves. The elf-lord had told him of what he had been able to learn from studying the bodies, and assured Éomer that Aragorn was not amongst the dead.

That had relieved him somewhat, yet he could tell without asking that Elladan was just as puzzled about this as he was. Who could have done this? Even orcs did not take such a delight in spilling blood. And why had taken the King? Had they - it must have been more than one person to be able to overcome fifteen battle-hardened Guards - left Legolas to live? If so, why? 

Such thoughts weighed his mind even as he helped Ioreth in washing Legolas and removing blood-soaked clothing, to reveal even worse wounds beneath. 

"Mahal," he heard Gimli gasp at the large wound where it seemed a large amount of flesh had simply been ripped off. Ever since they had found the elf, Gimli's eyes never left Legolas. "It is a wonder you have survived, you idiot elf."

"And an even greater wonder we came in time," Éomer said. The dwarf was another puzzle. "If you had not come to get me, and forced me to ride my horses and men so hard, he would have been dead 'ere we reached him."

"You do not know how truly you speak," Elladan spoke up, leveling an elven gaze at Éomer. They stood back now, watching anxiously but at a respectful distance as Ioreth set to work. "Another hour… he would not have lasted another hour, Éomer. Probably not even a half-hour. If it had taken any longer to reach him, or reach Minas Tirith, he would have died. This I know."

Éomer frowned. The tone in the elf's voice suggested that he had been able to decipher something out of the attack, which was more than can be said for the son of Eomund. "Elladan, you have learned something?"

Instead of answering Éomer, Elladan turned to Gimli instead. "Gimli, will you tell us of your dream? The one that lead us here?" Éomer had forgotten about that, in the light of what he had happened.

Gimli blinked, and finally took his eyes off his elven friend to stare at the floor. "Dreams, Elladan. Dwarves do not dream." It was almost a plea.

"Aye, but elf-friends do."

For a long moment all that could be heard were Ioreth and her helpers at work. Finally Gimli sighed, though he would not look at either of them. 

"It began two weeks ago. Legolas and I had not seen each other for a month, and I- I missed his company." The strong friendship between elf and dwarf was legendary, yet Gimli in particular seemed to dislike voicing his affections for his elven companion. If a shred of his old dwarf-self remained, it would be his reluctance at voicing his emotions. The fact that he did meant that he must be shaken badly. "I was observing some of those stars he loves so much – and for the life of me, I still cannot see why – when I fell asleep." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I was in a cave, but not one in Algarond. The rocks sang a different song than the ones in the Glittering Caves, and I was deep underground. Very deep. Then a voice say to me "_I ben deleb pada! Drego!_""

"The abominable one walks. Flee." Elladan translated for Éomer.

"I awoke, but every night the same dream came. Everything, exactly the same. But yester-morn, I saw also the White Tree, drawn on a slab of rock, drawn in blood. This time, the voice said "_I nae delu tol. Cennin i bith en seger_." I woke, and knew what I had to do, though I cannot explain why, or how. Just that I knew without a doubt." Gimli shifted uneasily, as if he himself did not understand what he had done. On second thought, Éomer decided that he probably didn't. "Never had I been so certain of something."

"What did the voice say?" Éomer asked quietly. Not for the first time, it irked him that he had never taken the time to learn the elven tongue, but there had never been a great need to.

Elladan answered, though his voice was distant, and his eyes were greatly troubled as they bore into Éomer's. "The deadly shadow comes. I see the fields of blood."

~*~

Faramir did not like the dark.

It was the kind of dislike that left one frozen and curled in a ball, unable to breathe then dizzy from breathing too much too much, whimpering and begging to be elsewhere, anywhere. He had not reached the latter stage yet, but he wasn't that far off from it. He was a captain of many battles, quite a few of which had been fought under moonless nights within sight of the Black Mountains. He had even faced two of the Nazgûl; and though he didn't battle with them, their very gaze sucked all memory of light from his heart. When he had been shot by that Southron arrow, he had grappled a darkness deeper than any night.

Yet simple darkness… His phobia had been a source of great amusement for Boromir, his brother, and Denethor took every opportunity to remind him of it, disgusted by such "unbecoming childishness".

He heard something move nearby, and had to convince his throat that constricting wouldn't really increase his chances of survival. His uncooperative mind decided to astonish him with a sudden creativity for creating images of whatever hideous beast prowled in this dark. He would have curled into a ball then if his body did not feel like a solid block of lead. And of course, the inability to move only sent what little coherency was in his mind into a full-fledged panic.

"Legolas?" the hideous-creature-in-the-dark groaned.

Panic died down as extreme embarrassment took its place, and Faramir the Sane came to be in control again. For a second he was even glad of the dark, for he felt a hot flush envelop his face.

"Nay, it is Faramir." More sounds of movement placed the man to the left of Faramir. "King Elessar?"

A hiss of pain, followed by a soft groan and what the Steward suspected was a curse in Sindarin, cut through the gloom. The King of Gondor stopped moving.

"Where are we?" 

"I do not know, my liege," Faramir admitted, though his obsession with the lack of light had halted the processing functions of his brain from even reaching anything resembling orientation. The one thing he knew was that he was horizontal, and had been for some time, judging by how the heat from his body had conducted into the rough stone floor. 

"Underground, at least half a league from the surface," said Aragorn after a moment. "A medium-sized cave, by the echoes."

Faramir nodded, then realised that Aragorn couldn't see him. "Aragorn, are you injured?"

"Not too badly." This alarmed Faramir somewhat, as he had seen what Aragorn considered to be 'not bad' wounds- for himself anyway. He felt a hand on his shoulder. 

"And what of you, my friend?"

Faramir executed a series of self-examination exercises that all the soldiers in Gondor were taught, something he had not thought of doing earlier. Painfully aware of the threat of a fresh onslaught of his phobia in one corner of his mind, waiting to overwhelm him, he used an old trick and focused with all his will in thinking about their predicament and his bodily aches, rather than the suffocating dark.

What he discovered was not comforting. He could not move his leg much before pain shot up his thigh. His deemed his shoulder dislocated. There was a dull ache on his torso that he couldn't quite determine. Yet most worrying was the fact that his movements were lethargic, and his muscles lacked their usual strength. He attempted to stand, or at least get out of his horizontal position, yet he barely got to his knees before he felt a strong knock to his jaw and realised that he had fallen flat on his face.

He lay in his new (and very uncomfortable) position before discovering that Aragorn was calling his name, and had been doing so for some time.

"Faramir?"

"I'm here," he grunted. He tried to move again, but a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. 

"Nay, rest, and let me examine you before you fall and do worse damage to yourself."

Unable to resist, Faramir resigned to Aragorn's trained examination. After a while (in which he prodded and poked Faramir in various places, occasionally drawing a hiss of pain) the King of Gondor confirmed his Steward's suspicions on the dislocated shoulder. His leg was apparently also in bad shape, though not broken, and there was a deep but dried wound on his torso. More than once Aragorn sighed in frustration, muttering about being unable to heal a rock if he couldn't see anything. It also occurred to Faramir that Aragorn was giving him time to gather energy, as he had not been able to even reach standing position earlier, without slighting Faramir's pride.

"Faramir, I fear I must see to your shoulder, lest it cause damage to your arm."

He sighed. "If it must be done, then do it." He braced himself as Aragorn positioned himself to get a better grip on the offending limb. Without warning he felt his arm being jerked back, then pulled down. The joint snapped back into place as Faramir involuntarily cried out from the pain. His voice echoed, and he suddenly understood why Aragorn said they were in a cave. 

"Aragorn, we must move," he finally said. As anxious as he was to leave the suffocating darkness, he also knew that there were creatures not of his imagination who would not be happy about their trespassing into their home. "Someone brought us here, and though I may be wrong, I do not think it wise to remain."

He did not know how he sensed it, but he felt Aragorn's gaze on him, assessing his Steward's condition. In his mind he could just see those storm-grey eyes bore into him. 

"That is true. But you will lean on me."

He had expected this, yet his eagerness to be out of this blind darkness overrode the pride in his heart. In any case, he doubted he had a choice, as Aragorn's tone conveyed little patience with arguments. Gingerly he put weight on his uninjured leg – and immediately suspected it wasn't that uninjured – and felt Aragorn's strong arms wrap around his waist even as he hoisted Faramir's arm - thankfully not the dislocated one - over his broad shoulders. Unsteadily they stumbled in the dark. 

They had not walked – or more like stumbled – for long when the floor suddenly shook. And being deep underground, the tremors were a lot worse than it would have been on the surface. Faramir lost contact with Aragorn, struggled to stay upright though his one good leg refused to hold his weight, then felt the rocky ground painfully make contact with his palms. Completely disorientated, he crawled, coughing on the dust. Suddenly he felt something slimy wrap around one wrist and injured leg. The pain from his leg made him cry out, before the darkness of unconsciousness claimed him again.

~*~*~

__

"Muindor?" – "Brother?"

****

A note on the Sindarin -_ it is one heck of a difficult language! I try to be as accurate as possible, or at least get near to what I'm intending to say, but the mutations are a headache. I will gladly welcome a better translation from one who knows it better; just e-mail it to me and I'll post it I'm sorry anyway, and I beseech outraged linguists to go down the road of laughing at my lack of grammar rather than flaming me. It's healthier for both of us._

Author's Notes:

It's really nice to know that people want to read your fics :-D so I'm sending out a special thanks to KaterineKasdorf, Jen Littlebottom, Silian, Faith, and Leigh for dropping such encouraging reviews.

Apologies to Leigh for the lengthy descriptions. I agree with you, but I can't seem to help myself! I'll try to add more dialogue in the next chapter, as we'll be meeting someone (two someones, actually) who you guys may not be expecting to be in this story..

For those who are following Enyalie,_ updates may be a lot slower now because Mirrors in the Mind is taking up a lot of my time. My apologies, though I will try my best._


	4. Chapter Three: Touched by Shadow

****

Chapter Three: Touched by Shadow

He was curious.

As usual,_ Feredir_ had done his job too well. There were others with him now. He could feel them, slowly but inevitably making their way towards the Heart. All paths led to the Heart. Once past _Fen_, there was no way out save through the Heart. No one save the Master knew the secret to the Heart.

His secret. One he did not know, so there was no escape for him, either.

He could only feel sympathy for the unfortunate souls who had wandered so unwittingly into _Gardhnorn_. More would come, now that Feredir was no longer restrained by the Master's will. 

Perhaps one would find him. Find a way to free him.

__

No. Foolish thoughts. No escape for him, not even death. The doom of his kind ensured that. He would welcome death with open arms, rather than this pointless existence. He even envied the victims of _Gardhnorn_, and there had been many over the years, for they escaped his sunless world in the end.

The newcomers entered the _Edrem_.

__

May the price of entry not be too dear, hunted ones.

~*~

Faramir wondered why waking always had to be so unpleasant. It was almost as if the powers that be discouraged return to the conscious world. For a moment, he was tempted to return to the painless sleep, as memory of his earlier waking returned to him before he opened his eyes. By which time it was entirely too late, of course, so he gathered what wit he had and lifted his heavy eyelids.

Prepared for a fresh assault of his phobia of the dark, he blinked several times when he was greeted by a soft green light coming from a section of rock nearby. A closer look revealed that the rock was covered in a strange fungus that gave out light.

The first thing he did was look around for Aragorn, and found the man not far away. He grimaced at the sight; his King's face had an ugly gash that would leave him with a scar, and several places on his tunic and breeches were stained with blood. He examined their surroundings. They were in a large cave, though he could only just make out the ceiling in he dim light. Remembering the earthquake, he tried to ascertain where they had woken up originally. He was quite sure that it had not been in this cave, for what he could remember of the echoes in the first cave told him that it was half the size of this one, and it did not have the light-giving fungus. And the floor of the first cave had had the feel of soft volcanic rock, whilst this one was smoother, with a great deal more quartz and crystal. His blackened hands confirmed that the previous cave had at least some granite in it.

But he couldn't find a way leading out of the cave, or any clues as to where they might have woken up earlier. They couldn't have walked very far from it. Perhaps a cave-in had blocked up the way into the cave. Which brought up the idea that they might be buried underground until they run out of air or food and water. Something he most definitely did not wish to dwell on.

Faramir rolled to his side – only to discover that it was the one with the dislocated shoulder earlier, and was still tender – but when he tried to get up, or at least sit, he ended up on his back again. Finally looking at himself, he found out why.

Though he could not remember clearly the events that had brought them to their current predicament, he was sure that they had been attacked. Why, or by what, still remained a mystery, but he was becoming quite sure with each passing moment that it hadn't been human. His clothes were ripped in various places, all of which revealed torn skin underneath. The worst was a large section of skin on his left leg that looked as if it had simply been peeled off, and the sight of it made Faramir slightly sick. Another wound one on his torso, the one that he had felt earlier, seemed to vaguely resemble claw-marks. He actually begain wishing he had not found out how bad his injuries were, for only then did his body realise that pain accompanied wounds of any kind. Moving hurt. Lying still hurt twice as much, for he couldn't find a position in which he did not put his weight on at least one gaping wound. Little wonder he was weak; he didn't dare imagine how much blood he had lost through the wound on his thigh alone, and he had several others only slightly smaller. And some still bled, in places where the blood hadn't quite clotted properly. His initial attempts to walk had probably broken them open again. 

A slight groan from his King told him that Aragorn was finally coming to. 

"Faramir?"

"I am here." His throat was dry, and some dust had gotten into his mouth. Careful to not put stress on any of the major injuries – which meant that he was limited to using his left arm and right leg – he managed to crawl to the side of his King. "It seems that your skills are much needed now, my friend."

Another groan, and eyes the colour of storm clouds on a clear day snapped open. "Elbereth, why is it so dark? Have the tremors stopped?"

"Aye, it seems so" Faramir suddenly caught what Aragorn had said. "But I only just came to, and I know not how much time has passed." He took a closer look at the former Ranger. Aside from the wound on his forehead, he appeared to be in better shape than his Steward. Yet… 

Instinctively, he passed a finger in front of Aragorn's face, though at a distance so as to not disturb the air. No reaction. He did it twice over. Not even a blink.

A cold fist wrapped around his heart.

Aragorn could not see. 

~*~

"Now, lads, what have we here?"

The two diminutive figures slowly turned to face a knot of gangly men looming behind them, one of whom threateningly waved a short sword. The men were grinning in a most unpleasant way, and their dark eyes glinted menacingly as they gazed upon their seemingly vulnerable victims, their greed evident in their eyes. They had robbed many of the little folk before, though not so far from the Shire, and usually the mere sight of a naked blade was enough to frighten their kind into handing over all their possessions.

Unfortunately for them, their prospective victims were not what one may consider ordinary hobbits. Before they knew what was happening, the hobbits had drawn their own weapons and stood at ready, alert but not openly hostile, despite being the ones threatened. Surprised, the leader reacted without thinking and clumsily slashed at the nearest one, only to feel his blade hit chain mail hidden underneath the cloak. With a quick glance at each other, followed by a fierce cry, the hobbits launched themselves onto the men.

As it was, such men had taken up their profession due to an ingrained cowardice, and these in particular were not very skilled with the weapons they bore, as they had never faced battle-hardened opponents before. Not that these hobbits had seen very much battle, but they had certainly experienced a great deal more than these men twice their size. Facing the Witch-King of the Nazgûl, or a troll in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, would teach even a hobbit something about warfare. Not to mention travelling with accomplished warriors such as the late High Warden of the White Tower, the current of the Reunited Kingdom, the Lord of Ithilien, and the Lord of Aglarond. Thus the end result was not unexpected: men groaning pitifully on the muddy ground, and their not-so-vulnerable victims sighing distastefully as they re-sheathed their swords.

"Pitiful bunch, aren't they, Merry?" said the taller one.

His companion nodded, looking a bit smug. "And they call themselves highway robbers. Well, now they know that us hobbits aren't as soft as we may look to be."

They turned to go. Unfortunately, it seemed that at least one of the men was more outraged at being beaten by a hobbit than fearful of the bite of metal – the hobbits, for the most part, had tried to hit them with flat side of their swords – and possessed some confidence in his daggers. Or perhaps he was simply drunk. In any case, his hand crept unseen to his boot dagger, and things might have turned out very badly indeed for the valiant Knights of Gondor and Rohan, had they not had a hidden guardian.

"Touch it, and this breath will be your last." At the same time, a boot pressed down hard between his shoulder blades.

He froze, along with all the semi-conscious men around him. Putting up his empty hands, he slowly turned his head. 

Behind him stood a tall, lithe figure, his hood pulled back to reveal a fair ageless face, and more than one man gasped upon noticing the pointed ears that marked him out as one of the legendary elves. As the suddenly-not-so-confident man gaped, the elf's hands moved quicker than mortal eyes could see, and he found himself staring at the metal tip of an arrow. 

"Were these men bothering you, Master Hobbits?" the elf asked casually. For that matter, he did not look the slightest bit worried. He was a little tense, but out of readiness to move rather than any fear of danger.

One of the hobbits grinned. "Why, I believe they were, Master Elrohir."

Merry scowled, and nearly talked over Pippin. "We were just disposing of them when you came along. Hobbits _can_ take care of themselves, you know."

"I never doubted that, Master Meriadoc," the son of Elrond replied with a smile. Merry couldn't decide whether he was mocking them or not; nevertheless his irritation rose a notch. "But the question still remains of what to do with them. And as they are _your_ rabble, I leave their fate in your most capable hands."

He _was_ mocking them! Taking a deep breath – he had to keep reminding himself that the younger of Elrond's twin sons was more incorrigible than him, Pippin and all the inhabitants of the Smials and Buckland put together, according to Gandalf anyway – he directed the hobbit equivalent of an elven glare at the cowering men. Unfortunately, most them were still alternating between gaping and cringing at Elrohir, and were barely aware of anything else. Irritation rose to anger, and Merry became so disgusted with the 'robbers' that he was tempted to spit at them. The idea shocked him, but the shock didn't lessen the feeling.

"All of you, out of my sight in three heartbeats, or you'll wish that Elrohir here cut out your entrails first," he barked in a voice that he never knew he had, and was surprised at his own pleasure at seeing the jump. 

__

What is wrong with me? A small voice in his head whispered.

The men took a hearbeat to blink, but all had the wits enough to scramble to their feet and run as if a Balrog's whip drove them. Fuming and not trusting himself to be civil with the elf, he turned to check on their ponies, and thus missed Elrohir's look of surprised admiration..

"In any case, thank you for coming to our aid," he heard Pippin say. He could feel the younger hobbit and the elf's eyes on his back, though they spoke to each other.

"You are welcome, Master Peregrin, though as Merry said, my help was barely needed." Elrohir's voice had no mockery in it now, and Merry wondered if he had not been imagining things earlier. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had- he hadn't been himself for days. "Though, if you don't mind me asking, where are two such esteemed hobbits be journeying to? I see from your supplies that you plan to go somewhere far."

Had_ Elrohir been making fun of us? Or did his words just rub me the wrong way?_ Deep in his heart he regretted his rudeness to the elf, for Elrohir had been kindly to them during their stay in Rivendell after journeying there with Frodo, and later when he and Elladan joined them in Rohan. 

"Actually, we are heading for Gondor, though we may stop by Rohan on the way."

Of course, there had been a few harmless pranks, but Merry could hardly pretend that he himself was innocent. He had actually enjoyed most of them, even ones where the joke was on him.

"Then it is quite fortunate that I found you, for that is where I head also. I have not seen my sister and brothers for a long time. I would like to accompany you, if you would have me."

In fact, Merry had taken more of a liking to Elrohir than Elladan, because the elf and he shared a similar sense of humour- though Elrohir was quite a bit more innovative than Merry, and that the hobbit had attributed to several centuries worth of practice,

Pippin's voice brightened considerably. "Of course! That is, if Merry doesn't mind?"

__

Would it matter? That accursed voice was back again!_ Does anything _Merry_ says matter? Coming here to save us! As if we couldn't take care of ourselves! Do not trouble yourself with such useless baggage, master elf!_

He grimaced, and struggled vainly to quash the incessant buzzing in his head. This sulky, irritated hobbit was not Merry. Merry chose a good tankard of ale and good rich food over any sort of violence, yet at that moment he felt more like bashing Elrohir's head in. And for what? For helping them, when help was needed? It was likely that he had been following them for some hours, if not days, and he had not interfered until he saw a danger they hadn't. 

Merry knew all this, and clung on to this reasoning like a drowning hobbit. He suspected that it was the reason he managed to smooth his flushed face into a semblance of calm. Elrohir desrved that much, at least, though more likely a full apology would have to be delivered when Merry could actually do it sincerely.

"Merry?"

"Hmm? Oh, of course I don't mind." He made himself look at Elrohir, who studied him with eyes that seemed to look through his soul. He wanted to cringe. "You're always welcome to journey with us, Elrohir. I… apologise for my behaviour. I'm not feeling myself today." 

Once Elrohir nodded, Merry turned away and busied himself with re-arranging the packs on the ponies, unable to bear the elf's intense scrutiny any longer. He did not see the questioning look Elrohir gave Pippin, and the hobbit's troubled glance. 

~*~

Night had settled on the White City. The streets gradually emptied as even late-night drinkers stumbled out of the taverns and sought their beds, though they didn't necessarily make it that far. So the world was relatively silent, and not a breeze stirred the cool air.

It was, overall, a good night for contemplation. Gimli would have liked to smoke some leaf to aid his relaxation, but Legolas hated the smell of pipe-weed, and the elf still looked so frail that Gimli worried that a pin dropping would be enough the break what feeble hold on life his friend held. 

For the umpteenth time that hour, he glanced over at the elf, checking that his chest rose and fell. He had a feeling that he was getting a bit paranoid, but he felt that he had reason enough to be. Besides, no one was around to witness an open display of concern, though earlier in the day he had determined that this no longer mattered to him. Two Guards passing by the street below had been talking and jesting loudly, taking advantage of their break from duty with a tankard of ale. Gimli, high-strung after having to watch Ioreth sew together his best friend's gruesome injuries, strode down to the Guards and delivered an ultimatum that only a dwarf could, though he was careful to keep the volume of his voice down. It seemed that word had gotten around, for no more drunk Guards passed, and the street actually seemed quieter than it should have been.

Unable to help himself, his eyes traveled back to the elf. At least the blood was gone, the wounds were expertly dressed, and his breathing was fuller. But Legolas was still as pale as death, bruises covered two-thirds of his body, and the amount of blood he must have lost clearly worried Ioreth. And there was a possibility that Legolas had sustained a major head injury, for he sported a deep cut down one side of his head. But that would have to wait until the elf woke up. 

__

If he wakes up at all.

"Elf, if there was ever a good time for you to challenge the stubbornness of a dwarf, now will be it," he said gruffly. Once they saw that Legolas' condition was more or less stable, Éomer and Elladan had departed for the Citadel. They tried to get Gimli to go with them, of course, but Aulë wouldn't have been able to persuade the dwarf to leave his friend's side. Occasionally, Ioreth or one of her healers would come by and check on the bandages, and had brought dinner up to him, but for the most part of the day Gimli had been alone with his unconscious friend.

A sharp lance of pain through his head reminded him of his lack of sleep. He had not slept for four days, since his fateful dream, and he realised that for all the hardiness of his race, he could not keep it up for much longer. 

__

I must sleep sometime, he tried to reason with himself. _Where better than in the Houses of Healing, when even an elf rests?_

He shifted to a more comfortable position. He was in a stout wooden chair, lined with soft cushions, right next to the elf. He suddenly had the oddest desire to possess the fair voice of the Eldar, if only for an hour, so he may sing a song to draw Legolas from the brink of death, just as the elf had done for him countless times in the past. He dismissed this thought with a good measure of embarrassment. He imagined that all the dwarves that have ever dwelt in the Lonely Mountain would be struck down by apoplexy upon hearing of such a wish coming from a dwarf. Besides, any singing he attempted would probably push Legolas over the brink into death, if not bring down every building in Minas Tirith as well. 

But as tired as he was, he could not convince himself to sleep. What if Legolas woke? Or his attacker returned? Even worse yet, what if Legolas too his last breath, and Gimli was not awake to see it? Would he wake in the morning, and see the once-lively child of Iluvatar cold and lifeless? He was not sure his sanity could survive that.

__

Breath, Prince of Mirkwood. Breathe for me.

Not knowing what else to do, he reached out and touched the elf's hand. He had done this every hour also, if only to assure himself that his friend was still there. The smooth skin was cold, but not the clammy ice of before. He imagined that he was imparting some of his strength into his friend, silently encouraging the immortal body to regenerate itself, to mend torn flesh, to stop the spill of precious blood. He hoped that Legolas could at least feel his presence, and be comforted by it.

"I will not sleep until you assure me that you will not slip away once my eyes are closed," he mumbled. 

As if in response, the fair hand beneath his coarse one moved slightly. It was the smallest of movements, a tiny contraction of the fingers.

Could Legolas have heard him?

"Come, Legolas. The battle is not over yet. Come back to us." The elf did not move again, but the small movement heartened the forlorn dwarf, and he took it as a sign that the stubborn son of Thranduil would not be giving up his struggle any time soon.

"I am here, my friend. I will not leave you."

He remembered all too well his horror that morning. Guilt, over failing to reach his friends in time. Shock, for he had not actually expected Legolas to be there; the White Tree in his dreams had only told him that Aragorn would be involved. Pain, faced with weeping for two, both his dearest friends in life. If only he gotten there sooner. Foolish thought, for he doubted that a lone dwarf could have changed the outcome of the battle But what if it could have? Perhaps the aid of the Rohirrim would have been enough. If he had pushed Eomer harder, or had heeded his dreams earlier... So many ifs.

Yet it was a measure of how close elf and dwarf had become that though Legolas was lying unconscious on the bed before him, Gimli could almost hear the elf's disapproving voice in his head, muttering about the stiff neck of the dwarves and their inability to take care of themselves. Gimli mentally countered that by pointing out the many occasions where the elf had ignored his own injuries as he saw to everyone else's. 

__

Foolish dwarf, Legolas would say. _At least admit to yourself that it is not purely for my sake you stay awake._

"Aye, yet I would gladly listen to your scoldings for ten years and a day if that is the price for your waking." 

He knew he was running, hiding from the true fear in his heart. He feared for his friend's life, dearer to him than his own. At a deeper level, he feared for Middle-Earth, now that the Firstborn were departing, trusting Men to take care of the world. But the most immediate fear in his heart at that point in time was the dreams.

If he slept, the dreams would come. He had been uneasy with themto begin with, and a part of his urgency in riding to Gondor had been in hope of discovering that the dreams were little more than an elf's bad influence. Now Aragorn was captured, left to a fate that could be worse than that of his men, and Legolas lay near death beside him. What would his next dream tell him? He was ashamed to admit that he feared what message would be in his next dream more than the actual dreaming itself. Perhaps he would not be so lucky next time. He had been fortunate, after all, for Éomer trusted him and his instincts. Next time… he shuddered. He would go mad, if he knew that something akin to this would occur again, and be unable to stop it. 

Was this what was termed foresight? It was a gift Aragorn and Elladan possessed, yet Gimli had always taken it for an ability to piece together bits of information to reach a reliable conclusion, rather than a somewhat heightened form of intuition. That was the best he could describe the feeling. Similar to instinct, yet… less distinct, and at the same time more powerful. That morning – had it only been four days ago? – he had woken up, and had _known_. No solid evidence, nothing to even suggest how he knew of the attack. He simply did. He knew that Aragorn was going to be attacked. He knew that there would be killing, but if Aragorn was not found amongst the dead, he would live for some time yet. There would be another purpose for him.

"You will go mad, elvellon, if you do not cease this endless circle of 'what-ifs' and seek the rest your body requires."

Abruptly realising that his eyelids had drooped to half cover his eyes, he forced them open. Legolas had not moved, but Gimli could have sworn he had heard the elf's voice. He scowled at the elf, and almost heard the familiar musical laughter of the Lord of Ithilien. _That is it, this lack of sleep is driving me mad._

Only… he did not wish to dream again. He briefly considered asking Ioreth for a sleeping draught that may prevent him form dreaming, but dismissed the idea. He did not wish to let anyone know of how much even the thought of dreams sent a sliver of fear into his heart. And as much as he feared what he would learn, one look at the elf's battered face reminded him that his dearest friend in Arda would be dead if not for the warning of his dream. 

He let out a frustrated growl. He feared the knowledge in his dreams, lest he be helpless to do anything about it. Yet if a similar attack occurred again, he would wonder if he could have prevented it, had he had the courage to face his dreams.

So engrossed in the mental debate was he, that before long his body finally surrendered, and he unknowingly drifted into the realm of Lórien, who smiled at this strange child of Aulë on whom he had bestowed a special gift.

~*~*~

High Warden of the White Tower was one of Boromir's titles (from _The Window on the West, Book !V, The Two Towers_)

Lórien – the Vala who is master of dreams and visions.

Author's Notes:

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In case anyone's noticed, even though this is essentially a post-ROTK fic, I like lacing in some things from the Silmarillion. LOTR, after all, is but the tip of an iceberg, and I like acknowledging the incredible depth of Tolkien's world with brief glimpses into the history of Middle-Earth.

A huge THANK YOU to all your kind reviews! Exams are coming up, and it seems that a teenager's main priority is sleep, so I guess you can say that your words are the only thing fueling this story at the moment (I'm reciting French verbs even as I write this). And as a token of my appreciation and immense gratitude, I'm going to try thanking each reviewer personally (since the last update). Really sorry if I miss someone out, but it's probably because it didn't appear on the review page on time, so I'll be slotting it in with the next update. Now, on to the reviewers!

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Thundera Tiger –_ thank you SO much for the kind words and good advice! I nearly got a heart attack when I saw that you've reviewed my story, as I am a great follower of your stories. I'm trying to follow your advice, and I've discovered that following one's instinct is a good way to get around writer's block, so thank you for that._

I ask that you wait for more scenes with Merry and Pippin, though, as I've barely touched my characterization in this chapter. The next chapter will (hopefully) have more of Merry, Pippin and Elrohir in it, as well as an insight into why Merry is acting as he is.

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catwil –_ glad you like Gimli's dreams, and Faramir is most definitely not alone!_

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Guardgirl1 –_ My apologies, that is actually a result of a characterisation of Elladan I made for another of my stories. Basically, though the children of Elrond all know healing to some degree, Elladan was the worst at it. Aragorn (who was Elrond's foster-son) was the best, of course, followed by Arwen, then Elrohir, then Elladan, who can manage the basic battlefield treatments, but little more. You may not agree with this, of course, but keep in mind that such relatively minor characterisations come from my own imagination; so far as I know, there nothing in the books that say Elladan had the skill of his father. _

In this story, he lacked necessary medecine for improving Legolas' condition to any significant degree when they first found him, then later in the Houses of Healing he decided to let someone else with better skill handle Legolas' fragile condition. Hope that is a satisfactory explanation, and I'll see to answering your questions ;-)

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Acacia –_ Glad you like the characterisations, it took a whole notebook to get a clear idea of everyone's personalities. And congratulations on guessing Merry and Pippin!_

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cm –_ In case you're wondering, it'll get pretty complicated in a couple of chapters, so hang on tight! A bit of a clue: I'm going to be pairing some people up (no-slash!). Think Survivor, only we all want them to survive, don't we? _

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Silian –_ Go ahead, please! I'll revise the chapters in due time, just to clean up some typos, and you pointing out even the smallest errors will make my job a lot easier, so thanks a bunch!_


	5. Chapter Four: Old Grief

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Chapter Four: Old Grief 

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"Mightier than Estë is Nienna, sister of the Fëanturi; she dwells alone. She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered in the marring of Melkor… But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope. Her halls are west of West, upon the borders of the world; and she comes seldom to the city of Valimar where all is glad. She goes rather to the Halls of Mandos, which are near to her own, and all those who wait it Mandos cry for her, for she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom."  
– Valaquenta

Derinsul was feeling quite frustrated.

The Lady Undómiel had disappeared after leading them back to the Citadel, and Lord Elladan – he supposed he would have to get used to considering him a Lord, now that Lord Elrond had passed over the Sea – had spent the day avoiding him. Not that they were obvious about it- the day the children of Elrond became obvious about anything would be the day dwarves took up singing as a national pastime. The next time he saw both was over dinner, which had been a rather silent and tense affair. His careful questions and close observation told him that they were keeping something from him, but anything more was guesswork. 

So he decided to have a look around.

After telling Thavron and Caulaen that he was going to his rooms, of course.

Without any specific destination in mind, he set off in a slow walk down the main hallway of the Citadel. In a flash of mischief, he had taken off his light shoes and was enjoying the feel of cool stone beneath his feet. The various Guards either on guard duty or on their way to somewhere else stared at him, and he was sure his bare feet attracted some attention as well. No one questioned him, for their Queen had made known that he was an honored guest of the royal couple, though he was yet to meet Aragorn.

He shook his head. He still had a hard time imagining the man as a King. He had met him before, under the name of Estel, adopted son of Lord Elrond. Legolas had befriended him, which meant that Derinsul had had to make an effort to be civil to the oft-scruffy human. Eventually, 'Estel' had changed some of his prejudiced views about humans, to the extent that he trusted the man to some extent. But not all his views had changed, and despite his relaxed appearance, Derinsul walked more tensely than he would normally. 

A lone Guard respectfully inclined his head in greeting, and Derinsul nodded in turn, feeling slightly surprised at himself for doing so. Before coming here, his contact with men had been limited to the men of Dale. They were courteous, but roguish and slightly uncouth, in Derinsul's opinion. He thought of them as children, ready to run rampant at the slightest provocation. The Men of Gondor, however, seemed almost a completely different Race. Even the son of Thranduil had to admire their discipline and inert nobility. There was a grimness to their faces, borne of being under the shadow of Mordor for years uncounted, but at the same time he could sense the youth and strength of the second children of Iluvatar. Whereas the men of Dale were children, the Gondorions were their fathers, stern but wise.

Even Minas Tirith was not as bad as he had expected it to be. His critical elven eye noted the lack of trees and greenery, and less than aesthetically pleasing stone walls, but his military mind approved of its solid foundations and good defensive layout. In his father's realm, Derinsul had the reputation for being an excellent tactician, and his overall conclusion was that he would not relish the prospect of attacking the White City.

Still, he looked forward to getting out of the stone walls and back into the trees. His father's palace had been made of stone, with a section of it underground, so he wasn't completely uneasy in this city, yet the Silvan blood in his veins yearned to be amongst trees again. And admittedly, he was anxious to see his youngest brother.

Legolas. The last elf Derinsul would have thought to accept a place in the Fellowship of the Ring. The Legolas Derinsul knew was a quiet, solitary being, with few friends outside his family, and comfortable with that fact. He could remember his disbelief at the message the Mirkwood delegation brought to his father upon returning from Rivendell and the Council of Elrond. He had immediately urged his father to let him ride to Rivendell and bodily extract his brother. But Thranduil had said no, they should trust the wisdom of Elrond and Mithrandir. This decision still puzzled Derinsul, for his father had always been loathed to let his youngest son into any sort of danger – a sentiment that had caused no small amount of grief when the Captains of Mirkwood had had to convince Thranduil to let Legolas fulfill his duty as a warrior of the realm. 

The children of Thranduil learned that day that elves who took up war as their craft tended to not have diplomatic methods of persuasion.

In the end, Derinsul was glad he had stayed in Mirkwood, for before the year was over the tides of war had swept them up, and he and his brother and sisters fought day and night to keep the forces of darkness at bay. In those dark days, when even Thranduil had not been sure they would see another sunrise, he was glad that his mother had passed over the Sea, and that his youngest brother was far from home.

Yet he wondered what Legolas had gone through. Despite the joy at the victory of the Free Peoples, Derinsul knew all too well the costs of war, and he had wept in joy when Legolas sent word that he was alive and well. But when his brother finally returned home, three months later, it was a very different elf from the one that had left Mirkwood. And in the company of a dwarf!* Derinsul had disapproved of Legolas' friendship with Aragorn the Ranger – Legolas had asked their father to keep Aragorn's identity as the Heir of Isildur from anyone else, but Derinsul had found out in the end – he had never imagined a son of Thranduil befriending one of the Naugrim.

But that had been four years ago, perhaps more, and in that time Derinsul thought he had overcome the shock. Mostly, anyway. As it was, Legolas had not stayed home long. After several months – in which he had accompanied his dwarf friend to the Lonely Mountain – Legolas left, leading a good number of their people to Gondor.

__

And now he is a Lord of his own people. Lord of Southern Ithilien. Derinsul had to admit to himself that he was quite proud of his brother, though he could not understand why Legolas would seek to befriend mortals and stay away from kin and home.

Derinsul sighed. Amongst his siblings, he had been the one closest to Legolas, yet even he could never fully understand his brother's heart. He knew Legolas' hopes and nightmare, had cared for him when their mother left, had tended to his first arrow-wound. As eldest, he saw it his duty to watch over the youngest, especially when Legolas also chose a warrior's path as well. Yet, Legolas had always been… different. A conversation with the elf was usually enough to set him apart from everyone else. The only physical evidence of this difference was the light in Legolas' eyes; all elves had the light of immortality in their eyes, but with Legolas, it was different- keener, older, as if there was a hidden depth to the elf's soul. It was a part of his brother that he had always yearned to understand, and, he was sure, part of the reason he had been chosen to be in the Fellowship, and a key to why Legolas preferred the company of mortals. He wished he had been able to ask Mithrandir about it- the wizard had always had a special interest in Derinsul's brother, and in hindsight, Derinsul was sure he had seen that different light also, and had understood it. In a way, the Crown Prince hoped that meeting his brother's friends and seeing _his_ world would help him achieve the latter.

With a start he realised that he was pacing. Shaking his head, he turned to make his way to his room when he ran into Elladan. 

"Deep thoughts tonight, kinsman**?" the half-elf said with a smile, amused eyes glancing down at Derinsul's bare feet.

"Aye," he admitted, silently rebuking himself for getting so distracted. "I will be leaving for Ithilien tomorrow morning, if that is well with you and the Lady Arwen?"

"It is," Elladan wore an unreadable expression, smile and mirth gone. "Will you walk with me, Derinsul?" 

The invitation surprised Derinsul, considering the elf's evasiveness the whole day. "Of course."

"How fares Eryn Lasgalen?" asked the Lord of Imladris as they made descended a set of stairs, their light steps making no sound on the stone floor. 

"Well, for the most part. The re-construction of Dale and our own dwellings will soon be coming to an end. Orcs still ravage the land outside our forests, though, and the wood will be slow to heal." He could have gone into more detail, but a close look at Elladan's face told him that the half-elf was not really paying attention. 

__

Perhaps I will find out why he has been avoiding me all day.

"The young think that war ends with either a glorious victory or a humble defeat. But life will teach that in the years repairing the aftermath of war, one is faced with memories of the horrors day after day," Elladan said suddenly. Derinsul raised an eyebrow.

"Is that one of Lord Elrond's sayings?"

Though Derinsul's words were said with a hint of jest, sadness enveloped the half-elf for a moment, and his eyes looked very distant indeed. "Yes, it is."

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, and wondering if he should apologise for his comment, Derinsul politely cleared his throat. "You have words to say to me, kinsman?"

"Have you ever lost family, Derinsul?"

Taken aback, it took Derinsul a moment to gather himself and quell a surge of outrage at the half-elf for such a question. Seeming to sense his reaction, Elladan looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, Derinsul. I did not mean to be so blunt, or bring up old griefs."

"I will survive, Elladan," he replied, taking a deep calming breath. "And I, for one, cannot reprimand you for being blunt. As for your question, yes, I have. My mother passed over the Sea just two centuries after Legolas was born, and I lost my sister seven centuries ago when her patrol unit was ambushed by orcs."

"I'm sorry," Elladan said quietly. "My mother passed over the Sea also."

"Now, would you do me the courtesy of explaining your purpose for re-surfacing these memoties?" Derinsul said, not too kindly. His stiff tone masked the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. He could see, in his mind's eye, the warm face of his mother, whose ringing laughter he still looked to hear every morning in the palace. His sister, named one of the fairest maidens in Mirkwood, who had eyes that reminded him of the night sky, and whose hair he would tie in a tangle when she was a child, out of mischief. _She had always accredited me for the fact that no living creature could catch her unawares._

Except that a band of orcs had. Why did that accursed peredhel have to bring this up now? He was actually quite startled at his strong reaction; the centuries had taught him to bring up a protective steel mask for when such topics came up. But he couldn't seem to get a hold on his emotions now._ Aramenel, what I would give just to see your face again!_

"Legolas is injured, Derinsul. Gravely."

__

No! He froze mid-step, fearing that some higher Power had taken his thought seriously. _Not Legolas! My life, everything I have ever owned or will ever own, but please, not my brother!_

"Where is he now?" he finally managed to ask, though his heart felt as if it was being squeezed by a troll. "And why was I not told?"

Elladan only quickened his pace, and Derinsul realised with a start that they were on the main road; he hadn't been aware of them leaving the Citadel. What was wrong with him lately? 

"You were not told because we feared to tell you anything until his situation was clear. The healer informed me before dinner that Legolas is now relatively stable. I will bring you to him now, for there is something you must see."

~*~

"How fares the Shire, Master Peregrin?"

Pippin nearly jumped at the sudden break in the silence they had traveled in for the past few hours. He found that the elf was walking beside him, one stride the length of three of his, and ahead of them was Merry with the ponies. 

"Oh, as good as it always has, I guess." He proceeded to give a detailed account of the general going-ons in his homeland; the weather had been kind, the crop and wine good, and so far a total of 15 marriages, all in the space of three months. He also described at length Sam's growing family, and his plans for extending Bag End. But all the while Pippin's eyes remained on Merry, and a quick glance at Elrohir told him that the elf shared his concerns.

"How long has Merry been like this?" Elrohir asked, when Pippin finally ran out of things to say and had settled into silence again. He was careful to keep his voice down, but Merry looked to be in such deep thought that Pippin doubted he could hear them shouting.

"Ever since we left the Shire, four days ago," Pippin replied. "He had been restless all year, you know, looking at old maps, bringing up Moria, or Lothlórien, or Minas Tirith, at the oddest times. When we go walking, he would always look distant-like. I heard his mother mention to my uncle once that some nights he would disappear, and I'm mighty suspicious of that 'secret hedge' the Brandybucks have that go into the Old Forest. He isn't so afraid of the Old Forest anymore, not like the old times, and after meeting Treebeard and all those Huorns, I shouldn't wonder. But I worry too, because it's fear that makes us careful, and a careless hobbit can get hurt wandering about the woods, even in peaceful days."

"I see that the years have brought you wisdom, my dear hobbit," Elrohir remarked with a sad smile. "Though at what price, I wonder?"

If the atmosphere hadn't been so uneasy, Pippin would have laughed. "I'm afraid 'wisdom' and 'Took' don't go well together, Master Elrohir. But as for price… I wouldn't call it a price, but a blessing, if you get my meaning. I know what you mean, though. At home, I would talk about the places I've been, and the people I've met, but to the folks back home, they're only names. Most of 'em sort of know of Frodo's quest, but it's just a story for them. They know about the Elves, but they are a distant legend to them. I'm blessed to have seen what I have, to know people like you, Master Elrohir, but sad that no one else understands just what they are missing."

"But that is why the Shire endures, Pippin," Elrohir said kindly. "I have been to your land several times, you know, before even Master Bilbo was born, and I deemed that hobbits are happier and safer, shut away from the world. Why do you think the Dunédain guarded your borders so vigilantly? They saw you living a life they could not have, and were strengthened to see that there was a fruit to their long labours. Elves and men alike make grand halls and realms worth of song, yet even I have envied the simple life of your kind at times." 

"It doesn't make it any less sadder, though." Pippin was surprised to discover that tears ran down his cheek. Grief had welled up in him again, an old grief he had thought to be long buried. Perhaps the price was heavier than he pretended it to be. "Sometimes, though, I wish that the hobbits back home knew the price for their freedom."

"I sought to learn of Merry's troubles, yet now I see that you carry a wound also, young Pippin," said Elrohir, lying a comforting hand on Pippin's shoulder. "Knowledge is a burden we must bear, Pippin. Be joyful that your people are free, and happy, though they may be ignorant. Would you have it any other way?"

"No," Pippin answered after a moment, wiping his cheeks with a kerchief. "I guess not." He sighed. "It's part of the reason I suggested this trip- yes, it was my idea, though I reckon Merry would have said something before long, or gone off on his own. I love the Shire, no mistake about that, but… even I can't stay there for very long without thinking about the outside world. Sam's lucky; he's got a family and all to keep him together, but Merry and I… Even after the Battle of Bywater, people expected things to go 'back to normal', like nothing ever happened, but we can't do that. Not with what we've been through."

Elrohir only shook his head ruefully. "Alas, that even innocence cannot escape the Shadow. I would have had it so that no hobbit would ever have been involved in the War, and it is no comfort to think that only a hobbit could have destroyed the One."

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But I do not regret it, thought Pippin as the grief eventually subsided. _For all the pains we went through, I don't regret it._

They fell into silence again. Merry still walked with his head down, oblivious to the world. Finally, Pippin worked up the courage to ask Elrohir something that he had both dreaded and desperately wanted to know. 

"Elrohir, if it's not too personal a thing to ask, will you be going over the Sea soon?"

A shadow of grief passed the elf's face, but was gone so quickly Pippin wondered if it had been there at all. His eyes were locked to the west, and Pippin wondered what he was seeing. "That question I have not yet answered myself, son of Paladin. But the two choices I have require a price I do not think I have the strength to pay."

~*~

They had stopped for the night, and had made camp in a somewhat protected area on the open plains. The hobbits' lack of fervor for their meal was a clear indication of the strange mood that had befallen the two little beings. Elrohir, though significantly less of a politician than his twin, still had the training of Elrond and Galadriel in reading the hearts and minds of mortals. He saw that a shadow hung over Merry that made the hobbit's less desirable characteristics - impatience, and anger, for example – more pronounced, more dominant. The change in countenance alarmed Merry, and the hobbit was instinctively fighting this shadow. The shadow itself was… strange was the first word to come to mind, but unusual would describe it better. Instead of a foreign influence, the shadow in Merry was, as far as Elrohir could sense, actually a part of Merry, coming from within instead of outside, and he did not dare do anything until he was sure of its exact nature. And how it had come about. Which probably meant waiting until he could consult with Estel or Arwen.

Pippin also carried a shadow, and also one of his own making. His was less unusual, but far more profound, and Elrohir was glad for their earlier conversation. Otherwise he would not have detected the slow build-up of grief in the hobbit, yearning for release because Pippin refused to acknowledge it, until it was too late to help him. He felt that Pippin would he fine for the time being, though the grief was still there. 

__

I spoke truly about a price, and I doubt that the grief would ever fully leave him.

Almost ritualistically his eyes rose to the night sky as the stars began appearing. One of the first to become visible was Gil-Estel, and Elrohir smiled at his grandfather.

"I pray that I have your strength, Mariner. The time for my choice lessens, yet a thousand years have not cleared my thoughts any further." He had also spoken truly about the emergence of wisdom in the young Took. He remembered the first time he laid eyes on Pippin, during their stay at Rivendell, and he would not have thought that hobbit to be the same as the one gathering up their cooking utensils, if it weren't for his physical features. Pippin was taller now, of course, but sorrow was in his face, and loss, and his eyes bore the grimness of one who had seen too much death. 

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The eyes of a hobbit are not meant to carry grief.

Elrohir shook his head. Over the years he had come to understand Mithrandir's fascination with the little folk. Hobbits were, at first glance, simple, and content with being simple. Dig a little deeper, however, and one would discover that the harmless-seeming race had endurance that made Dwarves seem like butter, nobility enough to make Men weep, and perceptiveness to rival an Elf. 

Volunteering to take the first watch, Elrohir settled on a large rock where he could relax and watch all of the camp at the same time. It was unlikely that a watch was even needed, but Elrohir doubted he could sleep that night, and he desperately needed to think. He sat thus, as motionless as the rock, until the first light of the new day began creeping over the horizon. 

"Son of my son, your brother needs you."

Elrohir looked around, startled. Nothing else stirred; he and the hobbits were alone on the plain. Feeling incredulous, yet unable to come to a better conclusion, his eyes gazed back up towards distant Eärendil. Was it his imagination, or did the star twinkle in acknowledgement?

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Perhaps I should have gotten some sleep.

He shrugged and began waking a gently snoring Pippin, but in his mind and heart a deep dread was growing.

~*~

Merry blinked.

One minute, he had been staring at the various constellations in the clear night sky as he bedded down for the night. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Elrohir's graceful figure pace anxiously, then sit on a rock as he took the first watch. The next, he found himself standing on a crystal bridge, eerily similar to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. A mile or so beneath him he could make out a seething river of molten rock, but strangely enough the heat did not touch him. He actually felt quite cool. On one side of the bridge was the entrance to a cave or dark tunnel, but he could not see further inside. The other…

He had to blink several times before he managed to actually see what it was. It was a huge dome, made of crystal that seemed so delicate that a good sneeze would shatter it. It was impossible to tell what colour it was, for the crystal surface was a swirling rainbow. At first, Merry thought it was smooth, but once his eyes adjusted to the almost nauseating colour-shifting, he saw that the surface was actually composed of thousands of flat segments the size of his hand. He wondered if it was safe to get closer, but something told him that there was someone else there with him, and though nothing bad had happened yet, one shouldn't tempt fate.

"Is anyone here?" He said softly, and cringed when his voice reverberated through the vast cavern. He felt that unseen presence again, and knew that it was aware of him, watching him.

"I do not wish you any harm," he tried again. It occurred to him that the Merry the Irritable Hobbit was gone, and he felt strangely relieved. Hobbit sense also told him that he was in a potentially dangerous situation, and that the first order of business was to find a way out. "I don't know how I got here, but I'll just be finding my way out now, if you don't mind."

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Who are you?

The voice reverberated through the chamber, through his entire being, and echoed within his own mind. His eyes were suddenly drawn to the crystal dome, and he thought that the colours were swirling faster, mixing and melding in endless patterns. Watching it made him feel dizzy.

"My name's Merry. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc. And who are you sir, if I may ask?"

__

Meriadoc. He didn't know how, but he felt the presence's scrutiny grow keener, studying him. _Are you one of the Secondborn?_

What? Merry frowned. Fortunately, before the Fellowship departed from Rivendell, he had prepared himself for the journey south by studying maps and politely interrogating Lord Elrond. Though he was mostly interested in learning about the places they were going to and the road they were taking, he had picked up some bits of the history of Middle-Earth along the way. "No, I'm not a Man. I'm a Hobbit."

__

A Hobbit? Merry got the distinct impression that this presence was both curious and suspicious of him. He also caught how his question regarding the being's identity was smoothly evaded. He wondered if he had fallen into trouble again.

"Yes, sir. We're also known as Halflings, or _Periannath_."

A moment of silence followed, in which Merry shuffled uneasily as far from the edges of the bridge as he could. _You tell the truth, dreamer, yet I must confess I do not know your kind._

"That's all right, few people do." Merry looked around for something that looked like an exit, but the only opening he could see was the dark cave entrance, and unpleasant memories of Moria made that a last resort. "And what did you mean by 'dreamer'?"

The presence seemed surprised at his question. _You are not here in flesh, little one. Your mind is here in a dream-body, and so is another, but you are not here._

So he was dreaming. "Are you saying I only need to wake, and I'll leave this place?"

__

Of course. The voice suddenly sounded old and tired. _Do not seek this place, little one. I know not how your mind found it, but those who enter in flesh can never leave._

Merry heard something in the being's tone. "Does that include you?"

A moment of surprised silence passed. _Yes, I am imprisoned here._

Now, more worldly beings often mistook hobbits to be slow of thought due to their resistance to change and their quiet lifestyles, but several days in a hobbits' company often dispelled such views. Hobbits could think very fast and very shrewdly when the opportunity to presented itself, and none more so than Brandybucks, particularly certain Brandybucks whose lifetime objective seemed to be to get out of trouble. Thus it only took a moment of thought for Merry to reach a very horrifying conclusion.

"You're an elf, aren't you?" Of course, there could have been any number of possibilities regarding the being's Race, for the Quendi were by no means the only race untouched by time. However, as it just so happened, in this instance he was correct.

The swirling patterns froze mid-dance. Merry wondered if his fool mouth had landed him in deep water again, but when the voice spoke, it was filled with quiet admiration.

__

Your people must be accounted very wise indeed, young Meriadoc. None before had even thought of that, and many have spent a long time here trying to escape, cursing me for imprisoning them. The voice sounded very old indeed._ Eventually they throw themselves into the fires below._

A wave of sympathy rose in the Merry's heart at the thought of an elf, imprisoned for all of time. As the dome was the only obvious structure in the cavern, the elf must be in there. A wiser being than he would probably stand back and consider the difficulties and dangers involved in tampering with something that one did not fully understand, but his simple hobbit heart only knew of a strong desire to free this imprisoned soul.

"Merry?"

He recognised Pippin's voice, and whipped around to see if the younger hobbit had also drifted into this dream, but he still stood alone on the bridge. 

"Master Brandybuck, you will miss breakfast if you do not wake soon!"

That was Elrohir. The voices sounded distant, as if the speakers were yelling from afar, but were growing louder with each passing second. At the same time, the chamber was becoming less distinct, and Merry had the strangest sensation that he was being pulled away, though he wasn't moving.

__

You wake in the outside world. 

The world spun, becoming dimmer, until he could no longer see even the crystal bridge beneath his feet.

"Will I speak with you again?" 

The being took a moment to reply. _You should not have been able to come here in the first place, little one. Yet I deem that we will speak again._

~*~*~

*I'm working on another short story for Legolas' homecoming, so if you're curious about what this refers to, please be patient and I'll have the story up soon. 

**I'm not very sure about this, but I've imagined a chart of hierarchy for the elves, and with Elladan as the Lord of Imladris (being the eldest son, and Elrond gone over the Sea) and Derinsul as the Crown Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, it looked like Elladan is higher in status. However, Derinsul is a good bit older, which makes it awkward for him to address Elladan as 'Lord' (though he may think it). Besides, I think that they would view each other as equals, for a compromise between age and hierarchy. So I decided to use the word 'kinsman', not in the sense that they are related, but to imply 'of the same status'. 

Author's Notes

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Well, some new POVs there. Hope Merry, Pippin and Elrohir turned out all right, as they're the ones I've spent the least time on. Derinsul is another interesting one, but unfortunately all the background work I've done on him is in another story; I'm actually working on a vignette of Thranduil deciding to let Legolas go on the Fellowship (which I mention in this chapter). We'll be seeing quite a lot of Derinsul later. 

By the way, Arwen was in the library that Derinsul almost stumbled into. If he had gone in, he would have spotted her with a pile of scrolls and documents concerning Sauron.

Response to Reviewers

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Wow, you guys have motivated me to write more and revise more! Thanks to all my readers, and a special thanks to my reviewers for giving their say. 

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Kazaera-_ thanks, and I have noticed also that just about everyone sees the twins as pranksters. We'll see a more serious side to them both in this story, though. Concerning our mystery elf, I had originally intended for him to be an OC, but he's now officially a Silmarillion character. As for where he comes from… we'll have to wait and see, won't we? grins evilly_

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leiasky- _thanks; the story's set around 6 years after the War of the Ring, 5 years after the end of ROTK._

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Cyberwing_- thanks, glad you like it!_

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Hai-_ thanks for the good luck, will definitely need it!_

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Isabeau of Greenlea- _thank you, will have more Gimli/Legolas in the next chapter, though it won't be in the way you may think! It'll be interesting if you are able to guess who the elf is, 'cuz he's a very obscure character in the Silm._

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e-_ will an Elladan/Derinsul confrontation do instead? I think I'll have an Arwen/Derinsul squabble later, but it's not a definite event._

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acacia-_ oh dear, I REALLY have to revise this at some point. Thanks for spotting that! And thanks for the good luck- you guys are the ones motivating me to update!_

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Silian-_ thanks; you can take it easy on your poor nails now._

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The Amazing Maurice-_ many thanks, _you_'ve just made my month. I can assure you that we'll be seeing a much more serious side to Merry and Pippin (where would Middle-Earth be without hobbits?)_

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iverson-_ thank u; well, Legolas won't be waking up for a bit (some things have to happen first), we've seen a bit of Merry in this chapter, and hopefully Elladan will have a bit of spotlight in the next chapter!_

And thanks to **Thundera Tiger**_ for advertising (is that the right word for it?) my story! To anyone who hasn't checked, Fear No Darkness Chapter 24 is up!!_


	6. Chapter Five: Meetings in the Night

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Before going into the story, I'd like to give a big, big HUG to **Silian**_, and hope she reads the bottom of this chapter._

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Chapter Five: Meetings in the Night

Legolas was in pain.

A lot of pain.

Then, suddenly, there was only darkness, and he floated in that mindless oblivion until the song found him.

It called to him, enticing, seducing, until every particle of his being was drawn to it. The melody stirred something deep within him… a memory, ancient and not his own. A life in splendor and beauty, forsaken for a lord he loved more than life. The memory belonged to the singer of the song, but the song reverberated through him until he could no longer distinguish the new memories from his own.

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Do not come here. Feredir_ rides again, and now there is no _Master_ to bring him to heel._

Legolas gasped, instinctively stepping back though he was still surrounded by empty night. Then darkness shattered, and he felt cool stone beneath his bare feet. Looking around wildly, he saw to his disbelief what could only be described as an underground ocean. Above him, the rocky ceiling glittered with a thousand crystals, and some areas of rock were covered by a green substance, or perhaps it was a plant, providing a dim light to see with. The liquid in the 'ocean' had the fluidity of water, but was an unhealthy yellow-green colour. Legolas' attention was then drawn to what he was standing on.

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Where am I?

He was on an island of rock, in the middle of which stood a tall red column of marble, impossibly straight, around twenty paces high. Stepping closer, he saw the writing on it, and gave a sharp cry. It was in a spidery script that he did not recognise, but somehow the sinuous lines conveyed the sense of an evil older than he. He tried reaching out towards it, but drew back when he felt that evil try to grasp his arm.

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What is this?

He jumped when he heard a soft _thud_, but it was only a slab of rock bumping against his 'island'. Several of them dotted the surface of the water, floating seemingly without direction, so thin that he felt even his weight would crack it.

__

I wonder what would happen if Gimli jumped onto one, he thought in amusement.

As if thinking about him summoned the dwarf, Legolas heard a gruff voice behind him that he could identify without looking.

"Legolas?"

"Gimli," he greeted his stunted friend with a smile, relieved at seeing a familiar face and wondering if the dwarf could answer the questions in his mind. But his best friend only gawked at him. Before he knew what was happening, he was thrown back a little as the dwarf seized him around the waist and attempted to squeeze him into two, cursing incoherently. Eventually the elf managed to disentangle himself and held the dwarf at an arm's length. 

"Is that truly you, Legolas?" Gimli said, clutching the elf's hand. "Or are you just another phantom of my dreams?"

Legolas looked at him quizzically. "I didn't know you dreamt, my friend. But it is truly me, as far as I can tell. And perhaps you could enlighten me on where we are. I don't remember how we got here."

It was Gimli's turn to look at him, his expression unreadable. "What was the last thing you remember?"

Legolas had to think about that for a moment. "It doesn't make sense, but… It was night. I remember talking and jesting with Aragorn and Faramir. I remember something grabbing me from the back, and hitting something hard. Then… nothing. Where are we, Gimli?"

The dwarf was examining their surroundings with a suspicious expression on his face. "I fear I cannot answer that, my friend, for my last memories are that of sitting next to your bed in the Houses of Healing in Gondor after we found you near Emyn Arnen. The whole of the King's Guard had been massacred, Aragorn – and it seems Faramir as well – are missing, and you lay on death's doorstep."

Legolas could only stare at his friend. "But… that doesn't make sense…" As if to further emphasize his point, he gestured out at the 'ocean' and the vast cavern.

Gimli simply shrugged. "For my part, I would say I was dreaming, yet if you are truly Legolas, then it cannot be a normal dream. You should be the one who knows about dreams, my friend- you spend your day immersed in them." The dwarf sounded as if he was trying to solve a riddle!

"Gimli…" Legolas was getting more alarmed and anxious by the second, and he wondered how he could convey this sentiment to the dwarf. "I fear I don't understand. For one thing, I recall you once swearing that dwarves don't dream of anything but gold and the nearest mine, if they dreamed at all. For another, how did you suddenly arrive at the conclusion that this is a dream?"

"For the first question, I'm afraid it's a long story that I'd rather tell under a more familiar setting. For the second… let us just say that _I_ have been dreaming of late, for which I blame _you_, and they are strange dreams no dwarf should have. Also, it's the most logical conclusion. Had we been, for example, somehow taken and put here by whatever took Aragorn and Faramir, you would still bear your injuries, yet I see you are hale and unmarked."

The prince of Mirkwood nodded. It _was_ the most logical explanation, and at the moment the only plausible one, yet it still didn't explain where they were, or how they were to get out of there. 

"Legolas, do elves ever meet each other in dreams?"

He shook his head. "Nay. When we dream, we walk in our memories, or for those who have foresight, they may see images of things that might be. But we do not meet others, save in times of great need, and even then we only meet those who already dwell in the Halls of Mandos." He looked at Gimli sharply. "You said I was near the brink of death…"

"Peace, my friend," said Gimli, reaching up and patting him on the shoulder. "I think would have woken had your body ceased breathing."

Though not exactly comforted, Legolas knew that Gimli was right. He had a feeling that if he died, the dwarf would know in the instance and would be at his side even if the whole of Arda lay between them.

"What is this?" Gimli pointed at the marble column. "It is very old, and the rock comes from a place very far from here." Legolas nodded. He trusted Gimli's instincts when it came to anything to do with caves or rocks, just as Gimli trusted Legolas in matters to do with trees and living things. He once perceived a very interesting notion that together he and Gimli formed the perfect being, and though he was yet to share this with Gimli, he was sure that the dwarf would agree.

"Do not go near it!" he warned when Gimli stepped towards the column. "There is evil in it. See the writing? I cannot read it properly, for it is old, but I think it speaks of imprisonment. See here?" He pointed at what looked like a separate verse. "I can read the words 'Hunter' and 'Hunted' and something about a maze." He also somehow knew that it was a song… the idea tickled something at the back of his mind, but he couldn't grasp it.

Gimli suddenly looked around wildly. "Elladan? Are you here? Legolas, can you hear them?"

Legolas arched an eyebrow. "Who?" He listened with his heightened senses, but heard nothing besides the slush of water. Gimli, are you all right?"

But Gimli was becoming… indistinct. Legolas blinked, but it looked as if Gimli was fading. His lips moved, like he was saying something, but Legolas couldn't hear his words. "Gimli!" he rushed forward and grabbed his friend's outstretched hand. 

Then the world slipped out from under him. 

~*~

Elladan quietly led a very worried Derinsul into Legolas' room in the Houses of Healing, and stopped in his tracks, making the Crown Prince collide into him.

"What's wrong?" asked Derinsul anxiously. Elladan was a hand taller than him, so he hushed the elf and moved sideways to let Derinsul see a sight that challenged every elf's perspective of the world.

Gimli, formidable in his full armor and an axe resting beside him, was sound asleep on a chair next to Legolas' bed, his face furrowed in concern and fatigue, and his hand laid gently on Legolas' bruised hand. The elf hadn't moved since they recovered him that morning, at least to Elladan's knowledge, but his hand had clasped onto Gimli's.

Elladan couldn't suppress his smile at Derinsul's shocked face. The Lord of Imladris had gotten used to the close friendship between Legolas and Gimli over the past 6 years, but Derinsul hadn't seen the two very much, and to him Elladan though the sight must be earth-shattering.

But a look at Legolas' frail form reminded him of why he had brought the elf there.

"Come," he said, gently leading the furiously blinking elf onto the other side of the bed. "Tell me what you feel." He put the Crown Prince's hand on Legolas' forehead.

"Um…" Derinsul blinked some more. "What do you mean?"

"Search for his mind. Did you ever take healing lessons?"

That stiffened his back. "Of course I did. I was just…" Then his face blanched. "He's not here. His mind's not in his body. But," he looked at Elladan, his fear for his brother evident in his eyes. "How can this happen? What has happened to Legolas?"

It was what he had been afraid of. Elladan's healing abilities were very limited; he could do little more than diagnose physical injuries and make the most basic poultices. He didn't even trust himself to set bones. But one of the first things his father had taught him had been to immerse himself in a patient's consciousness to assess how far from death the patient was. Out of habit he did this to Legolas as Ioreth worked on him, and his legs nearly buckled when he found that Legolas' body was an empty husk. But he had hoped that it had only been his less-than-adept healing abilities.

Something suddenly occurred to Elladan. Moving next to the sleeping dwarf, careful not to wake him, he put his hand on Gimli's temple. 

"Neither is Gimli," he whispered, a cold iciness creeping up his spine.

He felt Derinsul grab him by the shoulder. "What has happened, Peredhel? Why is my brother so? And why was I only told now?"

Elladan sighed. The bodies of his two close friends lay like empty shells, devoid of awareness- he was not in a state of mind to deal with Derinsul. "Three days ago, Estel went on a state visit to Ithilien, and he was expected back today. We rode out this morning and found the King's Guard massacred not far from Emyn Arnen. Estel is missing and Legolas was gravely wounded. We brought your brother back here and stabilised him. We did not tell you of him because we were unsure of his condition, and even now we do not know if he will live, as he is yet to wake." He did not add that Arwen was worried that Derinsul would simply storm in whilst Legolas was still being treated and insist on bringing him to Greenwood; he himself doubted Derinsul was that rash, but it never hurt to take precautions around the children of Thranduil. "Gimli has stayed with him since we found him. Éomer has returned to the site to see to a proper burial for the Guards, and Arwen is searching the libraries for information on what could have caused this."

He gestured at Gimli. "I had thought that whatever butchered Aragorn's men had done something to Legolas' mind and soul as well, but now I see it cannot be so, for Gimli is also gone." In his heart he felt the growing fear for Estel; he sent out a silent plea for his twin to return soon.

Derinsul started pacing anxiously. "I should not have allowed Legolas to come and live here," he muttered.

Elladan snorted; if Derinsul was acting unbecoming by pacing, he was surely allowed to snort. "_Allow_? Kinsman, I'm not sure you had ever been able to allow or disallow Legolas anything."

"He was a decent elf until he met that human brother of yours."

Now that was going too far. "If I remember correctly, even _your_ father encouraged that friendship! Legolas was alone and friendless until he met Estel."

"He was not friendless! He had _me_, and he was loved by everyone." Derinsul's face was flushed. "Father didn't know him as well as I did! And look at what his 'friends' brought him to!"

"Do you think we should interrupt them?"

"He is _happy_ with us, Derinsul! How many times has he visited home since he became Lord of Ithilien?" Elladan smiled satisfactorily when he saw that he had hit a sore spot. 

"Pwah! And they say _we_ fight like children."

Derinsul was trembling. "Watch your tongue, Peredhel, or you may find it severed from you."

"Maybe we _should_ stop them. They'll waking up the entire street."

"Empty words, Silvan!" Elladan's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

With a cry of rage, Derinsul drew his sword at the same time as Elladan and lunged forward. Or at least, he would have had a pair of knives not catch him by a sleeve and trouser leg and pin him to the wall. Elladan similarly found himself suddenly staring up at the ceiling.

"Brother. Elladan." Legolas said, wincing as he slowly got to a sitting position with the help of Gimli. "Pray tell what suddenly inspired the both of you to start another Kinslaying, and right next to my bed as well?"

Elladan stared at Legolas, then at Derinsul, then back at Legolas, but before he could answer Arwen and Éomer appeared at the door.

Arwen surveyed the situation calmly, her eyes darting from her brother to Derinsul, who was still pinned to the wall, to Legolas. Upon seeing the latter, she smiled in relief; then rounded on her brother.

"Elladan, would you explain why you've drawn a sword in the Houses of Healing," she asked, sounding scandalised. "And what has happened here?"

"I'm afraid I provoked your brother, Lady Undómiel," Derinsul spoke up first. 

"Nay, nay, it was as much my fault," Elladan said, getting to his feet and rubbing his head. He helped Derinsul down, and handed the knives back to Legolas. A glance at Gimli's too-innocent face told him that the dwarf had swept his feet from under him at the same time Legolas had pinned Derinsul to the wall. Now that he thought about it, it was a very fortunate thing they had done as they did. "My apologies, Derinsul, I do not know what came over me."

"Neither do I," replied Derinsul softly, his eyes mirroring the same confusion Elladan felt. The oldest son of Elrond was normally a very patient and calm person, and it was the first time in his life he had intentionally goaded another into a fight. True, Derinsul did his own share of goading, but Elladan had endured worse comments from Imladris elves about Estel without lashing back.

"I see what you meant, Gimli," said Legolas softly as he looked at his injuries. "But as we are in a more or less familiar setting now, will you tell me what has happened?"

Looking very uncomfortable, Gimli reluctantly told of his recurring dream. "And I'm sure that that cave is part of a network of caves that includes the one we just came from. This means they must be deep indeed, for the rocks are ancient and a network that can include a large underground lake covers leagues."

"Lake?" Éomer broke in. "What mean you by lakes, Master Gimli?"

Gimli and Legolas looked at each other, but it was Legolas who answered. "We… met, on an island of rock surrounded by water, or something that has the fluidity of water."

"Met?" Derinsul asked. "What do you mean by 'met'?"

"I'm not sure," said Gimli tentatively. "I only know that I must have fallen asleep, for one minute I was sitting here, and the next, I was standing on the island with this fool elf in front of me."

"Describe this place," Arwen prompted.

Legolas took over. "As I said before, we were on an island of rock in the middle of a large body of yellow-green water. I could not see land from any side, though there were thin slabs of rock floating on the water. In the middle of the island is a large column of stone-"

"Red marble. Very rare and old red marble," Gimli supplied.

"Thank you, Gimli, I'm sure it couldn't have occurred to me that it's old and rare without your age-old wisdom to point it out."

"Of course not. I don't think you would have noticed it was there-"

Éomer cleared his throat. Legolas gave Gimli a triumphant grin before he continued.

"On the marble is writing, of an ancient script that I cannot read well, but I got the sense that it spoke of imprisonment of some kind, and a Hunter that captures those to be imprisoned. I'm not sure if Gimli felt it, but there was evil in that column."

"What do you mean by evil?" asked Arwen.

"I do not know," Legolas admitted. "But I felt that it is part of something larger, and it was either protecting or imprisoning something. And when I approached it, the evil that resides in the stone reached out, and attempted to take hold of me."

"I still do not understand," said Éomer. "You had the same dream?"

"Nay." Gimli looked at Legolas again; they seemed to hold a silent conference that ended when both nodded in agreement to something. Elladan didn't bother trying to understand the barely perceptible body language with which the pair communicated- Estel was the only other one who could understand their silent communication. "We do not know how it happened, but we both feel that we were both there in person. I saw him, he saw me, and we even talked. Consequently, we must consider it to be a real place."

Something clicked inside Elladan's head. "Aye, you were there, but in _mind_, rather than person."

"Would you care to explain that, brother?" Arwen turned to him.

"Derinsul can confirm what I am saying. As they were treating Legolas, I took a chance to feel out the state of his mind, and check if he's lapsed into a coma, for he had not stirred since we found him. But I found nothing." Elladan looked seriously at his sister. "Nothing. His mind and soul were no longer within his body."

Arwen glanced to Derinsul for confirmation, and the Crown Prince nodded. "I thought whoever had attacked them must have done something to Legolas' soul," Elladan continued. "But when I brought Derinsul here, Gimli was asleep," At this Gimli shifted, looking embarrassed. "And on an instinct, I checked him also. Nothing. It was as if their bodies were here, but their minds, their souls, had gone elsewhere."

A contemplative silence followed Elladan's words. Finally Éomer spoke up. "I think the most important thing we have to do now is find Aragorn."

"And Faramir," Legolas said. "He was travelling with us, and he was standing next to Aragorn the last time I saw them."

Derinsul voice was cold as he glared at Elladan. "I hold you fully accountable for what happened to my brother, _Lord_ Elladan."

"What happens to me is of my own fault," Legolas said in a steely voice that reminded Elladan very much of Thranduil. Despite his injuries, Legolas managed to sit straighter (Elladan was sure he would have stood up had his mangled legs been able to support him) and fixed Derinsul with such a glare that Elladan unconsciously shifted backwards, even though those intense blue eyes weren't even aimed at him. "_No one_ takes responsibility for my actions. Not even _you_, Derinsul."

Derinsul blanched slightly, and nodded, his eyes unable to meet his younger brothers'. Elladan shook his head. It was an easy mistake to think that Legolas was easily intimidated, because of his gentle nature and being slow to anger, but once his ire was roused, the youngest son of Thranduil could suddenly transform into a masterful and proud elf-lord in his prime. He remembered the first time he had seen Legolas in his cold anger, twice as deadly as his father's; it had been a sight to behold.

Legolas kept his gaze on Derinsul for another minute before slowly shaking his head and turning to Gimli for a whispered conference. Arwen took a deep breath and spoke up. "Then we must send a message to Éowyn immediately to tell her of what has befallen. Meanwhile, the hour is very late, gentlemen, and we are in the Houses of Healing. I urge that we depart to let Legolas rest- yes, Gimli, you may stay. We shall reconvene in the morning and discuss how we will search for my husband."

Elladan sent his sister a brief, comforting look even as he forcefully dragged a protesting Derinsul out of the chamber. He had forgotten about how worried she must be over Estel. _Stay strong, Undómiel; we'll find him._

She smiled gratefully at him. _Thank you, 'Adan,_ her eyes said.

~*~

Author's Notes:

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Hello again. I know I should go back to Aragorn and Faramir, but I absolutely adore Legolas and Gimli, and as they haven't been together at all yet, I decided they could have a whole chapter to themselves (well, sort of). 

On that note, for those of you who like Aragorn and Legolas pre-FOTR, I've started a new story titled Race With Wrath to apologise for suspending Enyalie (please go over to it and read why before you throw something at me!). A new perspective on how the friendship between Aragorn and Legolas may have developed. Featuring Thranduil like you've never seen him before: as a decent elf! And for those who didn't catch it, that's the event Derinsul and Elladan mentioned in their argument (actually it refers to that time period).

Anyways, thank you to all those who are still following this story, and even more thanks to those who took the time to say something about it.

Response to Reviewers

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Aria- sigh, I was wondering when the guessing game would start. In any case, I have to regretfully inform you that I *will not* be revealing who it is until much later ;-). But have fun guessing anyway (it's actually quite interesting to see who you guys come up with). In fact, I just realised that I've sub-consciously put a major clue in there! My thanks, and good luck revising (glances guiltily at Chemistry books squashed in the corner)

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acacia – aww, sorry, but the A/F duo (Aragorn and Faramir, but no slashy) will be up next, as well as a bit more of Gimli and Legolas. And yes, there is mucho dreaming in the air, I will be having fun with Derinsul (that came out wrong, didn't it?) 

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Thundera Tiger- once again, you are flatterin' me to death! I'm glad you picked up on the similarities between Elladan and Elrohir's words- you're the only one to spot that! I plan on including a bit of explanation on the dreams in a coming chapter, but for now I'll say that it's somewhat loosely based on Robert Jordan's _Tel'aran'rhiod _(World of Dreams) in Wheel of Time. Thank you so much for all the kind words!

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mageani- if you're interested in Derinsul, you can see him in _Race With Wrath_ before lil' bro Legsie left home. Thank you, hope your stove is behaving!

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Hai- thanks, glad you like it! It's slowing down a bit as I try to get everyone in position, but we'll hopefully see some action in two chapters or so.

Last but most definitely not least, many, many thanks to **SILIAN**, who has followed this story faithfully from the first chapter. I DO appreciate ALL your reviews, because they tell me that you're still with me and still enjoying what I write- a huge comfort, and *hopefully* one that will continue for a long time yet ;-). Your question concerning the twins' half-elfiness takes some time to explain, but basically Tolkien himself (I just found this out, actually) always made a point of emphasizing that Elrond and his children aren't full elves. He never refers to them as 'elves', always 'half-elves'. **Thundera Tiger** took the time to figure out the percentage of elf-blood in them and posted it in one of her fics, but I can't find it at the moment. Give me a day or so, and I'll send you an e-mail, cuz this is taking up a lot of space, OK? Thank you so much for your constant support!


	7. Chapter Six: Guidance from Darkness

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For Acacia, who's going to strangle me if I don't get back to a certain pair of Rangers soon. Enjoy!

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Chapter Six: Guidance from Darkness

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"There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world."   
– A Journey In The Dark, Book II

Aragorn had always wondered if his uncanny ability to read the minds and hearts of men were due rather to his upbringing by a certain pair of half-elf twins who had a penchant for swapping identities – and were so well-versed in it that their own father couldn't recognise them – than the ancient blood of Numenor in his veins. In any case, he was tired, injured, and his abilities, regardless of their origin, told him that his Steward was in worse condition (but was trying to hide it), and was currently torn by indecisiveness.

"Faramir, what's wrong?" he asked bluntly. He wished they had a bit of light, so he could assess his own injuries. At the moment, his body was simply hurting everywhere, even in places that really didn't have a right to hurt, and this was not very helpful information for a healer.

His companion didn't respond, but he heard the man shift uneasily. "Faramir, as your King I order you to speak your mind." Knowing the man, the Prince of Ithilien was trying to decide whether or not to tell Aragorn some terrible truth.

"Am I that easy to read?" Faramir asked in a half-hearted attempt to sidestep the question.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Now, what is it?"

"Aragorn, can you see me?"

The question puzzled him. "No, of course not. Why?"

More shifting. He could almost imagine Faramir sitting there, unconsciously biting his lip; his habit when he uneasy about something. "Aragorn, I do not know how to say this, but... My friend, I think you have gone blind."

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What? "I don't understand, Faramir." 

A sigh. "It's not completely dark. One wall is covered with moss – or something that looks like it - that gives out light. There is enough light for me to see you."

He blinked. For some reason his brain wasn't registering that statement. He held his hand in front of his face. He could hear his movements, could smell a faint odour of sweat from his hands, and felt his face when he brought the hand nearer, but his eyes only registered darkness. 

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Surely he jests?

That didn't make sense either. Why would Faramir pull such a prank? Aragorn wouldn't put it beyond his twin brothers, and maybe Legolas and Gimli in their more incorrigible days, but he himself had once agreed with Éomer that his Steward took life far too seriously.

"Perhaps it is only temporary, my liege," Faramir said calmly, though his voice sounded a trifle forced. A pounding headache had hatched in the King's head, but he ignored it, as he was still trying to grasp the notion that he was…

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Blind.

The foster-son of Elrond had treated many ailments in his long life, and always he viewed any injuries he himself suffered as mild inconveniences that hindered him from his duty as a healer and a leader. Now the pain of his body paled in comparison with the new horror beginning to bloom in his heart. 

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He could not see! 

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Is it possible? He touched his eyes. He could feel his fingers, smell them, hear callused skin scrape against smooth facial skin. But he could not see anything. 

"Elbereth," he breathed, and for some minutes all that could be heard in the cave was their breathing. Unfortunately, the fact that his sight didn't miraculously return told him that he was on his own for the moment.

It was far too soon for him to feel the full impact of this loss. He wasn't even sure he had accepted it yet. So, instead of dwelling on the issue and awaiting the onset of debilitating horror, he turned his mind to their present situation.

"We need to move," he said aloud. _But to where?_ Safety, yes, they weren't safe there. But where was _there_? He quickly passed over that question, though, when his thoughts started down the path of wondering where they were, for this would inevitably lead to his need to know about the geographical features around them. 

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Which I can't see.

I'm blind!

"We need to move," he repeated, firmly putting a lid on that train of thought. He could just imagine Faramir's sympathetic look; a cynical part of his mind was kindly informing him that his words weren't exactly vindictive of how well he was coping. So they had to move. _But how?_

Just as this thought occurred to him, another deeply-ingrained fear re-emerged in his heart: he would have to depend on Faramir for sight. 

He had long ago reasoned that this irrational fear originated from having grown up amongst elves; he had never considered himself good enough. No matter how many times his father, brothers, mother, Glorfindel, and Arwen assured him, there was always that deep dissatisfaction with his mortal abilities, and a bitterness at his weaknesses. It was irrational because it was based on his inability to be as good as elves, but as his father always told him, "A fish may envy the birds for the skies. But is not the sea just as wondrous?" 

A slow rumble in the silent cave caught his ears. He turned his head towards the direction of the sound, ironically hoping that something would happen to distract his meandering mind.

"Something comes," he said, and sensed Faramir's blink of surprise. Knowing that it was somewhat childish, he nonetheless took some relief in knowing that his remining senses were still better than the other man's. "It is not safe to stay here."

He felt Faramir nod, both at his suggestion and the silent plea he could not yet bring himself to voice. He remembered that his Steward could not stand unaided earlier, so getting up slowly and ignoring a twinge of pain in his legs, he helped Faramir up. The fact that Faramir needed his help made him feel profoundly better.

He blinked. _I am really being childish now._ His headache was getting progressively worse, though, so he decided that he would have to deal with his seething cauldron of emotions at a later date. 

But the process of actually getting anywhere was extremely awkward; Faramir leaning most of his weight on him whilst gently guiding Aragorn with his body. The blow to his pride made him flush in frustration, and he blinked furiously, willing his eyes to _see_. But the darkness remained, and he focused all his thoughts on walking as his legs trembled traitorously beneath him. The weakness in his body surprised him, and his pride demanded that he at least stay on his feet, for at the moment that was all he was good for.

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Focus on walking, he repeated to himself. _Focus on putting on foot in front of the other._

They had been half-walking, half-staggering in a general direction for a while when Faramir tense, causing them to stop. Aragorn opened his mouth to say something, but Faramir shushed him. 

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What was happening? Were they being attacked? He ground his teeth in frustration. He _hated_ this darkness! 

"What is it?" he whispered tersely, straining his ears even when Faramir leant backwards, signaling him to step back. 

Then he heard it. 

In his youth, he had hunted often enough with his brothers in the woods of Rivendell. Though it was dangerous – and expressly forbidden by their father – at times they would hunt at night. In the darkness beneath the trees, they had had to rely heavily on sound to tell how far away and how large their prey was. In his darkness, Aragorn used those experiences to aid him in creating a mental picture of what was before them.

Even in his mind, it didn't look pleasant.

~*~

Despite the slight itching of her eyes that indicated her lack of rest over the past two days, the Queen of Gondor did not move from the balcony of the royal bedchamber, from which she could see most of the City. Sub-consciously she played with the green stone in her hand, drawing comfort from the jewel that was her husband's namesake.

"Ai, Estel, where have you got to now?" she whispered to the still night. She knew she should seek some rest, but the scent in the cool air told her that dawn was not far off. In any case, she doubted she could get any sleep that night. 

Without realising it, her eyes turned towards Ephel Duath; she could not see the formidable mountain range, but she knew it was there. Something was afoot, and instinct told her that the ancient realm of Sauron had something to do with it. Her search of the ancient archives of Minas Tirith had been futile, as she did not even have an idea of what it was she was looking for. She soon gave up completely, and saw instead to the task of personally speaking to the families of the dead Guards. It had been a very trying day for the Queen, for coupled with her grief over the dead men and her anxiety over Legolas was a constant painful awareness of the absence of her beloved from her side. After dinner she had returned to the Citadel's main library, but again, she had found nothing.

She felt helpless.

Frustrated, she glanced up at distant Eärendil, a habit she had picked up from her father. Closing her eyes, she imagined she could see the Silmaril in its glory, shining with the light of the Trees on her grandfather's brow as a memory of the ancient times to the world below, but though mortality hadn't robbed her of her elven senses, she knew Vingilot was sailing far beyond earthly sight. 

But in her mind she saw the Mariner suddenly look at her, and he smiled. A fleeting memory came to her then: sitting on her mother's lap, listening to the cool tinkling of water, under a clear night sky – and under that very same star –, her father telling her wondrous tales of the First Age and the history of their kindred.

She opened her eyes and glanced down at the Elessar, a clear green stone set in a silver brooch of an eagle with outstretched wings. It had belonged to her mother, who had given it to her, and she in turn had given it to Estel. 

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But I don't want a stone, I want my husband! She missed that comforting presence, the strength and love in his eyes every time they rested on her, the warmth of his embrace that lessened the weight of her years. 

Being the daughter of Elrond meant that she had extensive training in schooling her features and composure to show only a calm indifference. In public, her pride maintained this mask, but now, with only the silent night to watch, she trembled.

"Yet I'm the Queen of Gondor, and my duty is to her people."

She sighed wearily. Hopefully the business of keeping the kingdom running would distract her during most of the day, for the nights were torturous enough. But that thought brought on a new set of problems: what would they tell the people? 

Once again her eyes went to the mountain range that the darkness hid from her. Something was happening that she could not understand, and she knew it had something to do with the ancient stronghold of the Dark Lord. 

And a memory of her father's stories?

She looked back up to the Star. _I'm sorry Grandfather. I don't understand what you are trying to tell me._

Eärendil only twinkled, but the familiar starlight calmed the torrent within her. _Ada, how I miss your presence now. If you are listening, please guide me to Estel. For all the bitterness of our parting, I know you love him too._

~*~

The creature had spotted them. 

He could feel its dreadful gaze settle on them, and Faramir's gasp confirmed it. He felt as if cold water had been thrown at his face, and he found it extremely difficult to breathe, though nothing had touched him yet. He felt as if the creature could see him, could see his very soul, and in his current state he was helpless to fend it off.

Ironically, in hindsight, it was probably his blindness that saved them. Shaking off the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, he felt something hard knock against his elbow. Reaching down, his hand grasped the familiar hilt of Andúril. 

What was it doing here? He felt a bit of confusion. Over the years he had grown so used to his sword that he no longer registered its weight- in fact he felt light and empty-handed without it strapped to him. Had he had it all along? The last time he remembered having it was… when he departed from Faramir's manor in Emyn Arnen. Had he drawn it when they were attacked? He was sure he would have, but he could remember scarce little of the attack itself. He couldn't even remember fighting, but surely he must have… 

A sharp hiss brought his mind back to the situation at hand. The creature was quite far off, from the sound of it, yet it was large, and who knew how fast it could move. "Faramir, draw your sword!"

No answer. Aragorn shook him. "Faramir!" Nothing. The Prince of Ithilien seemed frozen, rooted into place. His hand went to the man's hand on his shoulder. They were cold as ice, and sweating. "Son of Denethor, answer me!" Putting to use something he had learned from Gimli, the King of the Reunited Kingdoms punched his Steward on the jaw. 

He heard a sharp cry, and suddenly Faramir nearly pulled them both to the ground when he doubled over, violently coughing and wheezing. What had happened? No matter, the creature was coming closer. It was good enough that he got some response out of his companion. "Faramir, I know naught of what has happened, but draw your sword!" 

"I- do not- have it, Aragorn," he said, the words gasped out between coughs. 

"Then take Andúril!" Normally he disliked letting anyone else handle the prized heirloom of his predecessors, but they were definitely not under normal circumstances. He felt Faramir, who sounded as if he was being strangled, weakly reach over to his other side and drew the sword. 

If he had been someone else watching from a safe vantage point, he would have found the image that the two of them made somewhat comical. As it was, it occurred to Aragorn's pounding mind that even with the sword they were in trouble. He was the most hale of them both, but even a stubborn son of Elrond knew that attempting to wield a sword when one could not see would probably end up with him decapitating Faramir instead, if not himself. Faramir, on the other hand, _could _see, but he could hardly move one step without Aragorn's assistance, much less effectively defend them against the creature.

It did not look good.

"Faramir, we cannot fight," he whispered. "We must run." Could they do even that? 

"Aye." Fortunately the coughs seemed to be subsiding. "But I cannot find anywhere we can run to, lest it be back from where we came."

"Describe where we are." He studiously ignored the blow to his pride that the words caused.

"We are in the entrance of what looks to be a large cavern. Behind us is the tunnel that brought us here from the cave that we woke up in earlier. There may be side-tunnels that I did not see, for the light is dim and does not reach all parts of the tunnel."

The creature was minutes away from them, but it seemed to be taking its time. This greatly worried Aragorn, for the beast seemed confident that it already had its prey. Nodding to Faramir, he turned around and gathered his strength for a blind run down the tunnel whilst half-dragging, half-carrying his companion. But his first step chanced to be on a slippery slab of rock, and he felt his foot slip, sending him and Faramir flying. The tunnel was apparently uneven, for they rolled a bit before slamming into the smooth tunnel side-wall. 

Or what had been a smooth tunnel wall. He heard a strange grating sound, and suddenly the wall disappeared behind him. Something slimy wrapped around his wrists and waist, and he felt himself being lifted into another enclosed, considerably damp tunnel. 

Instinctively he tried to fend off what was holding him – which strangely felt like tentacles – but they only gripped harder. The _squish-squish-squish_ sounds coming from them made such a din in the claustrophobic tunnel that he couldn't hear if he yelled out, or if Faramir was still with him.

A calmer part of his mind convinced him to force his body to relax, he realised that he was horizontal, and _moving_ down the tunnel. The ceiling of rock scraped his nose and knees. He tried reaching out, and found only more tentacles. Now that he had stopped struggling, the tentacles loosened their grip slightly. And as no harm had come to him so far, he decided to trust fate a little and see where she would take him.

Thus he was completely unprepared when he heard the grating of rock ahead of him, and suddenly he found that he was sitting on mud. Or at least, he _hoped_ it was mud. Beside him he heard a soft grunt, and the sound of grating rock behind them. The _squish-squish-squish_ sounds stopped.

"Faramir?"

"I am here." The man's voice sounded incredulous, disgusted, and confused. "What has just happened?"

"Tell me first if we are safe, and if standing is possible."

He heard his companion shift slightly, looking about. "I do not see an immediate danger, and there is ample room to stand. We're in another tunnel, twice larger than the last. This one has more of that light-giving moss, so I can see better. I think there is probably an underground spring somewhere, for the ground is wet and muddy. I can see a rock where it may be drier, and it's large enough for both of us to sit on it." 

Aragorn nodded. A wet seat didn't particularly bother him, but Faramir had open wounds that were in danger of becoming infected. He got to his feet a little unsteadily, convinced that the throbbing in his head had struck up an Ent marching rhythm, and held out a hand to his companion. They had only taken a few steps when his leg (which he now suspected had some injury in it) hit hard rock. He let Faramir climb on first before clambering up himself.

The rock seemed to be strangely flat on the top, so they could sit in relative comfort. Now that their lives didn't appear to be in danger, for the moment at least, Aragorn turned his thoughts to where they were, how they got there, and most importantly, how they were to get out.

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And what in Valinor were those tentacle-creatures?

"Faramir," he said. "Have you any idea where we are?"

He felt rather than heard the other shake his head. "There are many places we could be, for caves are possible almost anywhere, if one goes deep enough. But I remember that the first cave we woke in, the one where the tremors struck, was volcanic rock, whilst the last cave was predominantly crystal. This one seems be volcanic, with a hint of sedimentary."

The first cave… "Faramir, think you that those… creatures with tentacles moved us from the first cave to the second one?" Aragorn remembered the tremors, the falling rock, and bracing himself. His next memory had been of waking up in the second cave. 

"Aye," the Prince of Ithilien's voice was thoughtful. "I remember one grabbing me before I became unconscious. Think you that they are how we came to be here?"

Aragorn was considering the same idea. "Perhaps," he said finally. "But not by themselves. We would not have been so ignorant as to stumble into a nest of them outside Emyn Arnen, and if they did, where are the others? _Something_ attacked us, this I know for sure. But perhaps the tentacled ones brought us into the caves."

"Then they can take us out again," Faramir said. Aragorn only grimaced ruefully. Now that they had solved the mystery of how they had fallen unconscious in one cave and woke up in another, there was still the nagging question of why they were there in the first place. It could not be a random coincidence that the King of Gondor and his Steward were trapped in what looked to be an extensive cave system deep underground. In fact, if the choral voices of instinct and experience were to be heeded, they most likely had unpleasant times ahead of them. 

Faramir cleared his throat, and Aragorn remembered something. "Faramir, what was that beast we faced in the last cave?" Not wishing to affront his companion's pride, he left unmentioned what had happened to the Prince.

He felt the son of Denethor shudder. "I do not rightly know. It was… It reminded me of the fire-drakes in the tales my mother used to tell me when I was young." Aragorn nodded; Elrond had had a great store of those also. "It wasn't hideous, exactly… It was as black as charcoal, yet between its scales I thought I could see red fire. It was like a large serpent, only with two legs. And when I saw its eyes… Aragorn, it was as if I could not remember how to move, how to breathe. I thought my heart had stopped beating. All I could see was the yellow flame in its eyes, and it- it consumed me."

Aragorn nodded somberly, laying a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. Faramir had become a friend and a trusted advisor over the years, though they tended to be quite formal towards one another. They were kindred spirits, in a way, for both were of Númenorean descent, and he knew that Faramir was a learned man as well as a good captain. Having fought against the shadow of Mordor all his life, it took a great deal to frighten the proud Prince to a point where he would openly confess it.

The whole thing made Aragorn uneasy. What had happened to them? Had they been taken captive? If so, what for? And why have they not met a sentient being who could conceivably have a motive for capturing them?

He let out a frustrated growl. There was no point in pursuing such questions until more information revealed itself to them. Looking for something to occupy him, he reached out to Faramir.

"My friend, let me check on your wounds." Just because he couldn't see, he reasoned, didn't mean he was no longer able to feel for injured muscle or open wounds (both of which he suspected Faramir had in quantity). But the Steward didn't answer. Reaching out further where the man had been last, Aragorn's hand encountered an arm, lower than where it should have been if Faramir was sitting.

"Faramir, are you well?" Trying to sound calm, and at the same time cursing his inability to see, he shuffled back to get closer to the Steward. The arm ended with a hand still clutching Andúril – which Aragorn had forgotten about, and he now quickly re-sheathed – thus confirming it was Faramir. But the man was sprawled on the rock now, and for no apparent reason. He gently shook him. 

No response. "Faramir?" Quashing his own fear, his hand traveled up to his friend's face. Faramir's eyes were closed, his breathing short and quick, his skin too clammy. "Faramir, can you hear me?" His heart leapt to his throat at the thought of having missed a major injury on Faramir, and the man having collapsed because of it. He wanted to tear his useless eyes out!

"Son of Denethor, the White City is under attack! Arise, your King calls you!" Despite being weak and emotionally unstable, Aragorn reasoned that he was at least physically stronger than his friend. Calm_. Perhaps his injuries just got the better of him. He has enough to have lost a lot of blood. _Yes, no need to start imagining some internal injury that he had missed. Steeling his will, he brought down his mental safeguards and let loose the ancient power of Numenor within him, reaching out to Faramir and lending some of his own strength to the man's body.

He heard Faramir groan. He felt his companion's head turn, and somehow he knew that those eyes had opened, and the piercing blue-grey gaze, not unlike his own, was regarding him.

"Faramir?" he whispered. A chill crept up his spine.

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"I ben deleb pada! Drego!"

Aragorn gasped, instinctively reaching for the hilt of Andúril, though more for comfort than any realistic intention of using it. 

That voice had not been Faramir's. 

"_I esteg?_"He shuddered, and not from cold.

"_Edrem_." Somehow, though he could not see, he knew those lips had twisted into a mirthless smile. "_Cennin i beth en seger_. _Man cenithach?_"

~*~

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I ben deleb pada! Drego! – The abominable one walks! Flee!

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I esteg? – Who are you? [literally: What are you called?]

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Cennin i beth en seger. Man cenithach?. – I see the fields of blood. What will you see?

*Once again, many apologies for the appalling Sindarin, and a plea for someone who knows it better to kindly lend a helping hand. I have spent a good two hours trying to work a single sentence out, so please don't flame me! Sindarin is a beautiful language, but it is really difficult to get a grasp on. 

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Many thanks to Ardalambion and the Sindarin Dictionary Project.

Author's Note:

OK, another chappie to go and thenit gets interesting. Though the next chapter is looking quite long at the moment, so maybe I'll cut it in half. It may also take longer to finish, because the Balrog of all schoolwork has caught up on me. 

And I know I say this every chapter (and look forward to saying in many more chapters to come), but my heartfelt thanks for reading my story, and I'm truly grateful to those who found time to drop a review.

Response to Reviewers:

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*please note that I list reviewers in order of when their review came in

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Aria – heheheee, always love your comments! My more sadistic nature is suggesting that I drop a few more hints to torture you further, but we'll see… Merci beaucoup, et bon chance dans votre examen!

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mageani – oh, you poor squashed thing you (gives big hug). Thank you for managing to gasp out a review, despite your indisposition. As for your question, well, because Legolas thought that he was relatively safe – after all, it was only from Emyn Arnen to Minas Tirith, and he had the King, Steward, and 2 dozen Guards for company – he had left his bow and arrows home. But he had brought his throwing knives (growing up in Mirkwood makes one a little paranoid of things that might go bump in the night) and these had not been touched (for a simple reason that's linked with why Aragorn still has Andúril). Thus when Ioreth removed his garments to tend to his injuries, she had given the knives to Gimli.

As for the posty thingy, I shall take the elven approach and say yes, and no. 

And because I'm sadistic, I'll leave you to dwell on that ;-)

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Acacia – to whom this chapter is for. Yes, more caves. In fact, I think you can be rest assured that the caves will be the main tourist attraction to this story. It's a pretty big cave system, after all. Yeah, I've started on HHGTTG (I'm actually a member of H2G2 on BBC.com) but I'm only on the first one. Hopefully it will get clearer soon, 'cuz at the moment I'm pretty bewildered. 

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xx embyr – ooo, a lurker! I'm one myself (blushes guiltily) and I owe quite a few people a good review for their stories. Glad you decided to make yourself known, and thank you so much for the kind words! 

Hehehe, I can actually imagine Elrohir waving pom-poms in the background ^ ^. Quite frightening, really, but anything's possible! 

And to **Silian**: if you're awaiting my e-mail, I'm really sorry! I don't really have an excuse, except that I'm an incredibly forgetful and lazy blob. I'll get to it right away!

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Coming up next! A most hobbity accident…


	8. Chapter Seven: To Gather

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This chapter is dedicated to **Thundera Tiger**, who has returned to us from the murky world of Real-Life! Also to xx embyr, who has rescued me from the depths of Sindarin Bad-Grammer Dungeon (I'll keep the use of it down to a minimum, anyway, before the PPC arrests me). And a big hand of applause to my new beta, **Jen Littlebottom**, who'll be the only reason y'all won't be throwing rotten tomatoes at me.

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Chapter Seven: To Gather

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"That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so."  
- Elrond, Council of Elrond, Book II

"Are you sure she is coming?"

"Aye, my Queen. Though she has sent no reply, I would not be surprised if she had overtaken the messenger in her haste to come here," Éomer assured Arwen. "I happened to give her a handsome stallion for last year's New Year. No offense to you or Gondor, dear Queen, but he is thrice as fast as any steed of Minas Tirith."

Arwen smiled fondly, though her heart did not seem into it. "I remember that horse, and I believe your claim. We shall postpone the council, then, until she arrives. And no need for apologies, my friend, for all of Arda knows of the speed and prowess of Rohan's horses."

"Thank you, my Queen."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Éomer, we have known each other for at least half a decade now. Why in all of Arda are you suddenly addressing me with a title? We are _friends_, Éomer, or at least I would hope so. Would you have me calling _you_ King all the time?"

He managed a lopsided grin. "Please, no. I'm sorry, Arwen. I am uneasy, and a Rider who senses menace wishes to understand it and protect friends and kin from it, yet it seems I can do neither. In such occasions we lapse into formality to hide our discontent."

Arwen's face turned serious at his words, and she sighed, looking distantly out a window. "If it is any comfort, dearest King of the Mark, I share your unease. The elves are closer to Arda and to that which grows upon the land than other Races, and at present the land whispers restlessly. It is not _evil_ that the trees sense. It is… a _menace_, yet not even so. I do not understand it."

"None of us do, Arwen," Éomer said soothingly. "Have hope. Aragorn and Faramir can take care of themselves." Ever since meeting them, Éomer had respected the two men for their skills in battle and their hardiness. During rare spurts when nothing too pressing required his attention in Rohan, he would go on small excursions with the two in Ithilien. After a particularly sweaty day of trekking and hunting, he had once complained that the King of Gondor and his Steward must be elves in disguise, for they were happily setting up camp without the slightest hint of weariness, whilst Éomer had immediately collapsed beneath a tree and did not move again until he could smell dinner. Being a Rider for most of his life, Éomer was by no means a stranger to strenuous activity, and he had surrendered to his protesting muscles when the two hardly seemed fazed. His two companions had only smiled in amusement at his exhaustion.

"I know; better than any wife knows, I think," she whispered. "For years before the War he would disappear into the Wild, and each morning and evening I would look out from Rivendell and hope to see him coming home. It broke my father's heart, and my brothers', seeing me on my balcony or at the door, but I would love no other. I see those years now as a trial for our love as much as a test for Aragorn's worth. I cannot bear the thought of losing him now, where we thought the hard road would have ended." Éomer noticed that in one hand she was clutching the green stone Aragorn had worn ever since they met upon the plains of Rohan- the Elessar, the namesake of Aragorn amongst his people.

"Speaking of Elves and Dwarves," he spoke up gently, wishing to divert the distant-eyed Queen to a less painful topic. "How are Legolas and Gimli faring?"

This brought a smile to the beautiful elf's lips. "Gimli claims that he can get Legolas out of bed by tomorrow morning for breakfast. I told him that though elves heal quickly, the son of Thranduil had only just returned to us from death's door; I doubt even my husband could get him well by then." Arwen had turned slightly towards him when she said this, and Éomer saw pain flash by briefly in her eyes at the mention of Aragorn. But the Queen of Gondor had strength to rival Éowyn's, and it was gone in the next heartbeat. "The dwarf was adamant, though, so now we have a wager. For the first time I would not mind losing."

Éomer snickered. He rarely did so, for it was a most unbecoming sound for a King, but he decided that there was reason enough to justify a little snicker. "Alas, though I agree that it seems Gimli will lose, I do not doubt he will try his best- Dwarves are the most persistent of races, methinks, except for perhaps a Hobbit deprived of food. I fear Legolas is in for an unpleasant time."

~*~

Indeed, the Lord of the Elves of Southern Ithilien was at that moment being introduced to the very disturbing notion of having a dwarf for a nursemaid. 

"Now, be sure to eat all of it. I don't understand how elves heal so quickly when they hardly seem to eat anything, but we shouldn't take any chances with such a fragile person as yourself, should we?"

Legolas glared balefully at the Lord of Aglarond, who placed a steaming bowl of gruel and herbs on his bedside table. Gimli only smiled in a most smug manner. 

"I am hardly an invalid, Gimli," he said in a quiet voice, the glint in his eyes promising unspeakable tortures to whomsoever would dare treat him like one- the stunted creature before him, for example. 

"Really? I haven't noticed."

"The minute I get out of this bed-"

"Which will not happen if you refuse to eat your food."

"-you shall consider yourself lucky to merely be dangling from a parapet by your beard."

Gimli's innocent smile only grew wider. "That tone may impress some of those lordlings back in Mirkwood and Ithilien dear prince, but I am a dwarf, and you have not the physical strength to carry out your threats, nor are you any longer able to daunt me with your unearthly glares."

Legolas' irritation rose two octaves, partly because Gimli's words were true. The dwarf had long since built up a resistance to elven glares. Most of the time Legolas counted this a blessing, for it meant that Gimli could hold his own when he visited South Ithilien, but in times such as these, he regretted using this method so much that the dwarf was no longer cowed by it. He also cursed his own weakness, for in the dwarven world (or so Gimli had explained to him) one could challenge a dwarf's position of authority by means of physical combat. This rarely happened, for most dwarves preferred the physical task of mining and working on metal and earth rather than leadership (despite the wealth that came with it), and leaders were burdened with administrative duties that hindered them from doing such things. There was also the ingrained sense of loyalty that ensured that dwarves would only question their leaders' judgement if the entire clan was at stake.

In any case, as Legolas was evidently a long way from being able to challenge a snail to a duel- well, perhaps a snail, but definitely not an orc, and Gimli was _far_ more challenging than an orc- he contented himself with letting his imagination roam free on what he _could_ do had he been able to even stand. 

Glaring at Gimli again, he reached over and picked up the bowl, ignoring the stabbing pains from his arm and shoulder. He was ravenously hungry, which told him better than his eyes how injured he was. His wounds had been treated with expert care, for many of the old practices of Númenor survived still in Gondor, and Aragorn had added his tutelage from Lord Elrond to that considerable store of knowledge. Consequently, the healers in Minas Tirith were some of the best in the world. Earlier that morning, Ioreth had come in to change his bandages – and what a fright she had to see that he was already awake; it seemed that Arwen had not thought to tell her about the incident in the previous night – and he had inquired about his injuries. Apparently he had dislocated both shoulders, fractured his left arm, and broken an ankle as well as a handful of ribs (one of which had been dangerously close to piercing a lung). When the bandages came off, he himself felt slightly nauseous at the sight of his usually smooth, unmarked skin covered in blackish-purple bruises, at least in the parts where his skin hadn't been torn off completely. Those wounds had actually been healing nicely, thrice as fast as they did on humans, so he shuddered to think what they had looked like when he had been brought in.

"Are you going to Arwen's council?" he asked Gimli. Arwen had appeared around an hour after sunrise and had spoken quietly with Gimli. When the Queen left after a brief word with Legolas and a chaste kiss on his cheek, Gimli had told him that Arwen was holding a council later in the day with Aragorn's advisors to discuss what to do about Gondor in her King's absence. Legolas knew that he had probably also been a subject of their conversation, for they could have spoken about the council in his hearing, but he knew and appreciated Gimli's understanding of his pride. Legolas would have insisted that he was 'fine'. Gimli would have been very honest, which was what Arwen needed, but doing so in the elf's hearing would have pricked his pride and caused a shouting match.

"Perhaps." Gimli said casually, as if saying that the future stability of Gondor was far less important than his friend's wellbeing. _And perhaps for Gimli,_ the elf prince mused with wonder, _it is_. He still spent most of his days amazed at the level of friendship he had reached with Gimli after only knowing him for less than a decade.

He sipped the gruel, drinking it from the rim of the bowl like a cup instead of using the spoon, and setting it down just as his weary arms began to tremble. Gimli raised an eyebrow in a half-bemused (at his stubbornness to admit his weakness, probably), half-concerned expression, but Legolas ignored him as the small intake of food made him only too aware of the knot of pain that was his body. He remembered the night before, waking up to the decidedly unwelcoming sound of a degenerating conversation between his eldest brother and Elladan. It was fortunate that he had woken ahead of Gimli, for the first few seconds of being in the conscious world had been wracked with intense pain. The loud argument between the other two meant that they did not hear the hiss of pain that had issued from Legolas. Tears had welled up in his eyes as wave after wave of stinging, throbbing, unrelenting spasm of pain washed through him, stealing his breath. He gritted his teeth as Gimli came to, forcing himself to ignore what felt like hot metal rods beneath his skin, and the dwarf only became aware of the state his friend was in after he had thrown those knives at Derinsul.

That had very nearly been a fatal mistake, for him as well as Derinsul. Seeing that the Crown Prince of Mirkwood and the Lord of Imladris were a hair's width from challenging each other to a duel to the death, Legolas and Gimli had spontaneously acted. Gimli had used the shaft of his long-handled axe to suddenly knock Elladan's legs out from under him (making sure to hit at the right angle and the weakest spots- Gimli had learnt much about the elven physique from sparring with a certain elf prince) whilst Legolas took his knives from where they lay on the table and had thrown them with the precision of centuries of training. 

And it was because of these centuries of training that he knew his throw had been dangerously off the minute the second knife handle left his fingers. His heart nearly melted with relief when he saw that somehow they still found their mark: Derinsul's garments, and not flesh. To his sharp eyes though, they had been an inch short of their intended position on the wall and far closer to his brother's skin than he would have dared. And that little act had almost made him lose the contents of his stomach as a fresh wave of pain and nausea gripped him again.

And now… 

He hurt. He was weak. He felt like he had not eaten anything for months. He couldn't remember the last time he had drawn breath without a spasm of pain lancing through him. 

As if to top it all off, he was getting a very rude introduction into the rudiments of Dwarven medicine.

It was not, by far, the first time the elf had been grievously injured. But in the past, Aragorn had always taken full responsibility of healing his friend. Legolas had grown used to the Man's methods; upon seeing that his patient was on the road to recovery, Aragorn would coax said patient into doing more and more apparently 'necessary' activities that exercised muscles and eventually got the patient out of bed. 

It seemed that Dwarves had a refreshingly different approach to convincing a patient to leave the comforts of his chamber. In Aragorn's absence, Gimli had enthusiastically taken over the role of ensuring that Legolas' health returned with all possible speed. 

And 'speed' in capital letters. 

It was unnecessarily brutal, in Legolas' opinion. The healers' ethics that Aragorn learned under Lord Elrond had taught the man to remove himself slightly from the present when he treated a patient, lest his own emotions get the better of him and trouble his concentration. Because of this, Aragorn had never thought to use his patients' own weaknesses against them. Gimli had no such inhibitions.

He stepped around Legolas like the elf was made of glass. He spoke to him like he was a helpless child. He fetched everything Legolas asked for. At first, it amused the elf, and he had assumed that, in his worry, Gimli was becoming _slightly_ too protective. He had appreciated the Dwarf's concern, and perhaps at first Gimli _had _been overly anxious about him. But once he saw that his friend was recovering well on his own, his efforts to 'be of service' became outrageous. At first Legolas tolerated all of it with amusement, convincing himself that he would not be baited by the Dwarf and that he was getting the better of the bargain. But when Gimli had tried to spoon-feed him, his irritation had brimmed over and he snapped.

It had been a good four hours since that had begun, and Legolas was beginning to understand the full intent behind the Dwarf's seemingly extravagant show of concern. If there was anything that Legolas despised with all the length, depth and breadth of Arda, it was losing his self-reliance. He strongly disliked depending on others, and did so only when he was already operating at full capacity and needed others to handle other tasks. Gimli's apparent enthusiasm to 'help' Legolas with even the simplest of tasks (the elf was beginning to suspect that Gimli would have moved his arms for him if he asked) had been no more than a ruse to, literally, irritate Legolas out of bed. 

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And the amazing thing is that it's working, he thought as he shifted his legs slightly into a different position. When he had first woken up, the legs had been numb and unmovable. Then they were on fire as skin and tissue raced to grow back. Under Aragorn he would have been able to move them around dinner. But one "Are you sure you do not require another blanket?" too many had made him forget his injuries and instinctively kicked out with one foot (thankfully not the one with the fractured ankle). The kick had been weak, and the pain that followed nearly made him lose what food he had managed to get down, yet it had forced him to re-evaluate the true speed of elven recovery. After that, he could move both legs slightly every few minutes, and did so to improve the circulation and exercise what muscles were left intact.

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Perhaps I should give Gimli a gift after this, he mused. But the Dwarf would not accept anything too ostentatious, and would probably pretend to not understand what the gift was for. _But he will get one, if I must weld it to his beard_, the elf thought with determination. _Perhaps a special batch of that strong wine he has taken a liking to. Or another book of Lothlórien lore._ So engrossed was he in wondering what to give his dear friend that it took him a moment to notice that an errand-runner had arrived and was passing on a message to Gimli.

"Queen Arwen sends word that Lady Éowyn of Ithilien has arrived," said the breathless young boy. "And that the council will being shortly in the one of the council chambers, if you will consent to come."

"Tell the Queen that Lord Gimli will be attending," Legolas said before Gimli could speak. The errand-runner bowed and ran out again.

"I take it you are determined to have me go?" said the Dwarf gruffly, glowering at Legolas.

"Yes, I am," the Lord of South Ithilien replied firmly. "You will have to speak for me also. Unless you wish to carry me there? I thought not. This will undoubtedly involve South Ithilien in one way or another, and I trust you to look out for the wellbeing of my people."

Gimli sent him a glare that said that he knew Legolas only wanted him to leave the Houses of Healing – for the Dwarf had not gone outside since Legolas had been brought in – but the task had been discreetly given. Unable to take part in the council, he had just given Gimli the responsibility of looking after the interests of the elves of Ithilien; as unlikely a representative a Dwarf may be for the Elves, Gimli was actually very good at it. His strong friendship with Legolas had given him an acute awareness of the wants and needs of the Eldar race, and he was not tied up in the political maneuverings and intrigues of his friend's court that sometimes hindered Legolas. If anything else, the simple fact that Legolas had personally charged him with looking after his people meant that Gimli would do so to the best of his abilities.

"Very well, have it your way- for now," the Lord of Aglarond growled, giving him a final glare that now said "You'd better be in your bed when I get back, or else".

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Maybe I'll surprise him by getting up for dinner. 

But what he said was, "Thank you, my friend,." Those words were heartfelt and purposely ambiguous. He was thanking Gimli for representing him in the council, for being beside him as he recovered, for bringing him back from the soulless coma that Elladan was convinced he was in (he had so far found no evidence of Gimli actually rescuing him from the dream world, but he was quite certain that he would have stayed there if he had not grabbed hold of Gimli as his friend was being awakened), and for obeying his instincts and riding out to find him. His eyes said all those words the both of them would have been embarrassed to voice, and the Dwarf understood, nodding and clasping his hand warmly before departing.

"Elf-friend, where would I be without you?" the elf prince said softly, his eyes becoming distant. Unwillingly, he shifted his gaze to the open window, gripping his bed sheets tightly even as he was enveloped by the song of the Sea.

~*~

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Faramir.

The name reverberated through Éowyn's thoughts as she drove her horse ever closer to the stone City shining white beneath the afternoon sun. It was a beautiful summer day, and the world was bright with colour, but the vibrancy seemed to shy away from the pale woman, and the warmth of the sun did not touch her.

Faramir.

She vaguely remembered leaving the manor and management of Ithilien to Beregond. She had barely read the slip of parchment that the messenger from Minas Tirith had borne before ordering her horse to be saddled and briefly talking to the Captain of her husband's Guard. During the long ride she had read the message again and again, and the anxiety in her heart had hardly lessened. The words in the message were light, undoubtedly meant to not alarm her, but it also told frankly of the massacre of Aragorn's Guard and the missing men. 

It could not have been coincidence that the King and Steward of Gondor were missing, whilst the rest of their party had been slain. Éowyn had lived in Gondor long enough to know that there were any number of people who would have motive for the kidnap of the leaders of the strongest nation in Middle-Earth. And not necessarily men; she did not dare think that all the minions of Sauron had disappeared with their master's destruction. No, there was a reason Aragorn and Faramir had been taken, and her heart clenched at the thought of what her beloved might be subjected to.

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Faramir.

Ever since she registered the contents of the short letter from her brother, she had one sole thought in her mind: _Get to Arwen_. The Queen would know what to do. Éowyn hated being helpless, yet she would be first to concede that there were others more learned than her, and she had long since learned that charging straight into a battle one did not know was foolish, and more often than not ended with one losing one's head to a beardless hillman.

She rode past sparsely vegetated land, uphill onto the main Gate. There, the wardens spotted her and opened the Gate. Obviously she had been expected; Éowyn smiled slightly at the thought of her brother's uncanny ability to predict her actions. She rode up the familiar roads, winding through the Circles. Ever since marrying the Steward of Gondor, she had spent a considerable amount of time in Minas Tirith, and was getting to know the City almost as well as her beloved Rohan.

Finally reaching the Seventh Gate, she nearly flew off her mount and ran to her brother, who had obviously been waiting for her. A stable hand came and took Finesse away.

"Éowyn, we miss you in Meduseld," said Éomer, embracing her fiercely. "Lothiriél sends her love."

"What has happened, brother?" she asked anxiously, stepping away from him. "Know you yet what has become of my husband and the King Aragorn?"

The King of the Mark shook his head. "Nay, we have received no ransom, nor found no clue as to what may have befallen them. Yet we are sure that they are, for the moment at least, alive. If they had been killed, their bodies would have been left with the Guards."

Éowyn nodded impatiently; it was basically what the letter had told her. "There were no other survivors?" she said, still horrified at the news, and her horror only increased when her brother paled slightly- a veteran of battles, very little could affect Éomer. 

"Nay, only Lord Legolas, as I stated in my message, and we were almost too late. He is in the Houses of Healing now, and well on his way to recovery."

She nodded. She was very glad that the elf lord had lived; she had often visited the fair realm of the elves in South Ithilien, and had warmed more to Legolas than any other elf there. Her husband also had a close friendship with the elf, for Faramir held a great love for the Firstborn, and the two would often go hunting in the woods of Ithilien (usually only notifying her after the event, much to her annoyance). But she could not help thinking of the men who had died. None had been the Ithilien Guard, but she had difficulty in believing that the men she had met only two days before were now dead.

After a moment, Éomer took her arm gently. "Come, Arwen is about to hold a council." Together they made their way into the Citadel.

~*~

Arwen took the seat at the head of the long table in one of the Citadel's council chambers, trying not to think about the man who should be sitting there instead of her. She was wearing her usual mask of calm authority, despite her weariness and the gnawing worry in her heart. Though only a select few were attending this conference, most of whom were trusted friends, it was also a somewhat formal occasion.

"Friends, we are here today to discuss a recent event that we have so far succeeded in keeping from the people of Gondor." she spoke, serene and in control. "King Elessar is missing." Her husband's various advisors stirred, but rumour had made them suspect as much already. She held up a hand for silence and continued

"Attending the council today are King Éomer of Rohan, as a close ally of Gondor and an important witness to an important event; Lady Éowyn of Ithilien and wife to Prince Faramir, who is also missing; my brother Elladan, Lord of Imladris, who is also a witness; Derinsul, Heir of Eryn Lasgalen; and Gimli, son of Gloin and Lord of Aglarond, who is another witness and is also here on behalf of Lord Legolas of Southern Ithilien." Derinsul shot a sharp look at Gimli, but the Dwarf ignored him. The advisors only nodded, for many of the individuals mentioned were well-known in Minas Tirith due to their close friendship with the King. 

"Early yester-morn," she continued. "before dawn, mute evidence of a massacre was found near Emyn Arnen. Some two dozen Guards who had been escorting the King during his state visit to Ithilien appeared to have been slaughtered. Each man has been identified and accounted for by King Éomer and Lord Elladan. Prince Faramir and Lord Legolas had been travelling with them back to Minas Tirith when they were attacked. By what or for what reason, we have not been able to ascertain. King Elessar and Prince Faramir were not amongst the bodies- there is no evidence on whether they are dead or alive, though reason dictates that they are alive, or else their bodies would have been left with the Guards. There is only one survivor: Lord Legolas, who was barely rescued in time when King Éomer and his Riders, along with Lord Elladan and Lord Gimli, arrived at the scene." She beckoned for Éomer to speak.

"I had a sudden desire to visit my sister in Ithilien," he began. "Lord Gimli heard of my plans and traveled with us, desiring to see his friend the Lord Legolas. We decided to stop for the night in Minas Tirith and inquired about the King, wishing to speak with him if he had time. Lord Elladan was at the Gate when we arrived, so we asked him about King Elessar."

"A shadow befell me then, though I did not know the source," Elladan took up the story. "I have some little measure of foresight from my father, the Lord Elrond, and I urged we journey to Ithilien as quickly as possible. We took a less-traveled route on my advice, and came upon the scene."

Éomer described what they had seen, the way the bodies had been savagely mutilated and thrown about, the pattern in the dead, the last stand the Guards made, and the most likely place Aragorn and Faramir had been when they were taken. Quite a few of the advisors paled, for Éomer was very graphic in his descriptions. Even Arwen was horrified, for before Éomer had tried to reveal as little as he could about what had been done to the Guards. But she kept her face steady. It was not time to falter yet.

When he finished, she spoke again. "Now we must decide what should be told to the people, and see to the organisation of search parties. We still hold out hope that the King and the Steward are alive. We do not know the reason behind their abduction; there has been no ransom note, nor message of any kind concerning them." 

Gimli coughed. What alerted her was not the cough, but the way Elladan and Éomer suddenly turned their sharp gazes to the Dwarf, though little but their eyes moved. Something was amiss here.

But they had a council to get through first. The advisors had many questions, most of which they had already prepared answers for. Arwen, Elladan, Éomer, Éowyn, and Gimli gently steered the advisors towards deciding to withhold the truth from the people for the moment, and say that the King was still on his state visit. Though Gondor was strong and prospering, she still had many enemies on either side of her Walls who would take advantage of the lack of leadership whether or not they had anything to do with the kidnapping. Over that day and the next small search parties would set out discreetly to start combing through the woods of Ithilien and surrounding areas. Arwen assured them that the families of the murdered Guards were aware of the need for discretion, though it had pained her to explain it to them. 

After two tedious hours of formality and subtle maneuvering, Arwen drew the meeting to a close, claiming weariness from grief. The advisors nodded sympathetically, and assured her that they would help in any way they could. Massaging her temples, she headed out of the room, supported by Elladan. 

Half an hour later, she and Elladan stepped into the royal apartments, where Éomer, Éowyn, Gimli, Derinsul and his elven companions were waiting. All conversation stopped when she entered.

She nodded at them, rubbing her hands together in a business-like manner. "So, the real council begins."

~*~*~

Author's Notes:

First of all, many apologies for the long delay in getting this out. As I explained in _MisInformation_, the exams finally caught up with me, and I had to do battle with two-hours-and-a-half papers for _days_- at least all that fic-writing gave good practice for improvising. LOL. And a big **welcome back** to **Thundera**, whenever she reads this. You've been sorely missed!

All right, we're just getting people in position here for the next part. Taking a cue from **Maggie Theis'** _"Perchance to Dream"_ (a beautifully-crafted fic, might I add, and I really hope she doesn't mind) I've decided to split _"Mirrors"_ into three Parts. We're nearing the end of Part I, with another chapter or so to go, and then I'll try revising the previous chapters as well as add a little explanation about these dreams for those of you getting confused. I know I promised hobbits for this chapter, and I apologise to those disgruntled by their absence. This is the first half of what was growing into a real long chapter, so I split it into two, and unfortunately the hobbits ended on the other side.

By the way, I think it's worth mentioning now that the emotions of the characters have been purposely intensified. It's tied in with the dreams, and ultimately, the mystery prisoner. Apologies to those who think I'm having Legolas recover too quickly. I may slow it down a bit if too many protest.

She'll probably smack me silly for this, but I'd like to plug **Jen Littlebottom**'s fics; particularly "The Sinking of Númenor", "Swordmaiden", and "The Key". They're really good and well-written, and look at well-known events/people from a different perspective. 

Anyways, many thanks again to my readers and reviewers; your encouragements are very heartening and make me feel that this fic is really worth the trouble. The speed at which some of you pounce on a new chapter really amazes me. (PS- is it just me, or are there *a lot* of Faramir-Aragorn duo fans out there?)

Reviewer Responses: 

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acacia- did I give Faramir anything but grey eyes? A big oops if I did. And as tempting as it is to tell where this cave system is, I think I won't, just to be evil *evil grin for emphasis*. Yes, there seems to be a lit of Spelunking-Lovers out there. Thanks for liking my chapter! You actually lightly touched on something I'll be using in the future there, but will say no more.

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xx embyr- a very horrifying thought had occurred to me when I read your review: are Elladan and Elrohir prankster duos just a transplanting of the Weasley twins? It certainly seems so. I'm not horrified that it's HP btw, as I really like the series myself and am anxiously counting down the days to Book 5, but the fact that no one seems to have noticed before. Oh dear. And thank you for suggesting the site. I wasn't aware of it, no, and it's been a jewel! Thank you very much!

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Lirenel- will deal with Faramir in the next chappie (I've written it already, and has been sent to Jen for betaing, so it should come out soon), so hold on tight!

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Aria- love the pom-poms sweetie. The Aragorn-fighting-Hook idea has interesting potential, though; reminded me of the Pirates of the Caribbean movie coming out. And don't worry, we'll find out everything eventually (well, maybe not everything). Thank you!

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Joy gonzalez- Thanks!

Silian- is that a WOT reference I see before me? *pokes* And I'll get even meaner towards Legolas in the next Part. He's sort of a main character, but with a very specific function in the plot. And really sorry about cutting it in half anyway; it was giving _me_ headaches trying to proof-read it. Thank you!

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IceAngel- *gives hug* whew, no death threats yet. Hobbits and Faramir will be served in the next course. Thanks!

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Sairavanie- Thank you very much! And *ahem* didn't you say you had a sequel?

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Jen Littlebottom- see what nitpickering so well got you? *hugs* Thank you!

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French Pony- *gives cup of tea to soothe tiredness* Thanks for liking my story, and finding the energy to tell despite being tired!

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e- hold on to yer Hobbits, sweetie, here we go. And don't worry, the next one is already being beta-ed.


	9. Chapter Eight: For Council

This one's dedicated to all out there suffering from author's block (including yours truly)…

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Chapter Eight: For Council

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"I thought that I saw a white figure that shone and did not grow dim like the others. Was that Glorfindel then?"- Many Meetings, Book II

"So, the real council begins. Gimli?"

Nodding, Gimli rose and began to tell the real story. He told of his dreams, of riding to get Éomer, then the mad dash to Minas Tirith. He told of the meeting with Elladan, and riding towards Emyn Arnen. Through his tale Derinsul wore openly an expression of sheer disbelief, but strangely did not interrupt. This was, in Arwen's opinion, a positive symptom of growing open-mindedness. 

"A moment, Gimli," Éomer spoke up. "I just remembered something. I had been intending on using the usual road to Emyn Arnen when you told me to take a lesser-used trail that cut through the forest. When we neared the site you stopped me, got off the horse and ran right to where the… the massacre was. You've explained your dreams, yet though they indeed warned of what befell Aragorn and Faramir, I did not think they gave you such specific details. How did you know where to go?"

Gimli looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I do not know how to answer this, Éomer, save that I knew, somehow. I… I do not know how, save that I just _knew_."

"This is-" one of Derinsul's companions began, disbelief and scorn on his face. 

"Silence, Thavron!" said the other, as Derinsul shot the outspoken elf with a glare. Thavron looked abashed, and did not speak again.

But Arwen's eyes were on the shifting Dwarf. _Gimli is troubled by something._ Yet knowing Gimli, he would speak to none but Legolas about it, if even him. He was undoubtedly already greatly troubled by this onset of dreams that no dwarf had ever had to face before, at least to Arwen's knowledge, so the Queen decided to let him be.

"Very well," she said. "Now we know what has happened. We agreed beforehand to steer the advisors into approving small search parties, as well as to keep the full truth of Aragorn's disappearance from the people." The story that they presented to the advisors was as close to the truth as they could get whilst preventing questions that would only waste time. Gimli had only been too happy to let Elladan get the credit for the 'intuition', and Éomer's riders had agreed to stay with the story that they were on a leisurely visit, and had not raced a quarter-way across Arda to get to Minas Tirith at the bidding of a Dwarf. A letter had been sent to Lothiriel from Éomer and Arwen, explaining the situation and the fact that her husband would be staying for a while. Arwen and Éowyn had both insisted that he didn't need to, but Éomer had steadfastly refused to return to Rohan and abandon his friend and his brother (he thought of Faramir as such, as he was married to his sister). The whole business had been Arwen's idea. As much as she loved her adopted people, and trusted her husband's advisors, she also knew that the unusual circumstances called for having as few people know the truth as possible. What she had done with the councilors was something her father had taught her: _There are times, especially during war, when one has to choose between the truth that will need much explaining, or a story that will be more readily accepted. The best commander uses both._ "We must now decide on the search parties. They must be small, and of trustworthy men who can be told about the situation."

"If they are to be small, why not use those who already know?" Éowyn suggested. "My brother's _éored_, for one. Siblings of the Guards who were killed who are also in the Guards."

Arwen nodded. "I was considering that. Very well, the Rohirrim that came with Éomer can sweep the forests. The Guards who were killed were of the older generation in service, and some did have siblings who are either regular soldiers or Guards also."

"My éored can be ready to depart by nightfall. It'll be best to leave then, I think, under the cover of darkness," Éomer said. "I wish to go with them."

"The Guards will depart later, perhaps before dawn." Arwen looked seriously at the King of the Mark. "Be wary, Éomer. We have seen that whatever is responsible for all this aims to get men of rank, and will not hesitate killing those defending him."

"Which is why I am going also," Éowyn spoke, pointedly ignoring her brother's sharp look of protest. 

Arwen sighed. She had gotten to know the White Lady of Rohan over the years, and knew that Aragorn himself couldn't argue with the woman when she used that tone of voice. "If you promise to be wary."

"Lady Undómiel?" Derinsul spoke up for the first time that day. "My warriors and I would like to help with the search also."

More for her to worry about. Still, she could not ask him to stay in the City. Aside from longing for the trees, Derinsul undoubtedly felt that some avenging of his brother was in order, and restraining him would only be slighting his honour. "Very well. You shall go with the Gondorians then. Elladan, you have become quite well-known here amongst the soldiers and the Guards. Will you consent to lead the Gondorian party?"

Her brother looked slightly surprised by this, but nodded his consent. "If you believe they will follow me, Arwen, then yes."

"I do. Gimli, I do not doubt that you wish to join the search parties also. Will you go with Éomer, even as you arrived?"

Gimli bowed in proper Dwarf fashion. "You know me too well, Arwen. If Éomer and Firefoot will have me again, then yes."

Éomer laughed. "I think Firefoot is more fond of you than you think, Gimli son of Gloin. If you will not believe that, then know at least that I will welcome your company."

"Then it is set. The Rohirrim will depart at sunset. The Gondorians will follow before dawn. Now, to the areas we will be searching…"

~**~

He could hear them. They had heard his song. The voices he thought he would never hear again. He had hoped that they been able to depart, had been freed from their imprisonment, but he could hear their mournful cries now. 

He trembled. He could still remember each face, that fateful day he saw them last; faces that had he knew must have long since been decayed by time and eaten by shadow. He remembered spending long hours reciting each name, afraid he would forget them. Maybe it had been a wasted effort, for either by his own accursed elven mentality or some sorcery he could still remember every detail of his companions.

He wished they had not been separated. He longed to reach out and touch them; but they were the only parts of the _Gador–en-Goe_ that he could not access. The brief encounter with the little creature- a Hobbit, it called itself- had returned the deep yearning for company. 

But he was alone.

No. Not quite.

~**~

He was falling… He could see the Heart of the Flame, but then…

"Faramir?"

Eyes that he hadn't known had closed snapped open. For a moment he wondered why he was sprawled on his back, looking up at a smooth cave roof, and seeing everything in an almost eerie greenish light. Then he caught sight of his pale and slightly bloodied King looking down anxiously at him, and memory returned.

For the first few seconds he sincerely wished it hadn't.

"Faramir?" Trembling hands blindly groped for his. Remembering Aragorn's blindness, he squeezed his friend's hand and said, "I'm here. What happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

Faramir frowned, sitting up carefully to avoid aggravating the throbbing wound on his torso. "I remember talking about that… beast," he shuddered, trying not to remember _too_ clearly. "I remembered those eyes, and suddenly it was almost like I was before him again." _Arda was marred.._. "The next thing I knew was hearing you call my name and waking. What happened?"

Aragorn told him of finding him unconscious, and the words he had said. _Heart of Fire. But it wasn't the Flame…_ He felt cold, though the air around them was warm and humid. "I did not know I was speaking, Aragorn. I wasn't even aware of becoming unconscious. One minute I was talking, and the next, I was looking up at the ceiling." But the Heart… the Flame… everything had been Marred…

His King lifted a hand to massage the bridge of his nose, sighing. "I do not understand anymore than you do what is happening to us, my friend. But I sense an evil about this place, especially if it houses something akin to a fire-drake. But what should we do?"

The King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor was asking _him_ what to do? "It is either stay here or search for a way out, and either could bring us to greater danger."

"Yet we must decide, and I fear that it must be your decision, Faramir. I am the liability here, and you will be able to assess our situation better than I."

"Dear Aragorn, the day you become a liability, a Dwarf shall sprout wings and the Sun will turn blue," he said lightly, seeing that the man who could command whole armies and wielded the knowledge of the Eldar was slowly settling into a depression of sorts. "As for our situation, there is little you don't already know. Both of us are injured, and I need assistance to walk as my left leg cannot support my weight. We appear to be trapped in a large network of caves and connecting tunnels, and there are dangerous creatures lurking in some of the caves. Add to that the transporting-tentacles, and the threat of a sudden quake. We either stay put or go forwards. If we stay where we are, there is a rare chance that someone- friendly or not- will find us, and get us out of this maze; if we move forward, we may find the way out, but equally we may stumble upon another creature or danger. What think you, Aragorn? Your Steward has presented the options and the situation, but you are still the King, whatever betide."

"Thank you, Faramir," said Aragorn, a faint smile on his lips. "I see I've underestimated how well you know me. Very well, dear Steward, here is my decision: we go forward. Decide which direction we shall go, Faramir, and we shall walk hither together."

"Very good, my King," said the Prince of Ithilien lightly.

"Thank you." It could have been a trick of light, of course, but Faramir suddenly got a glimpse of a grin on Aragorn's lips of a sort that he had not seen for a good six years. "I _am_ the King, aren't I?"

~**~

Legolas opened his eyes, and frowned in puzzlement for a second before remembering where he was. He recognised the familiar wooden ceiling of his room in the Houses of Healing, and smiled at the beautiful view of the City during sunset through his window.

He sat up gingerly, surprised to find that he was hurting considerably less than he had expected. But his eyes had been closed; perhaps had fallen into a deep healing sleep. Testing his muscles by flexing them, Legolas shifted his position a bit. Hunger gnawed his stomach, another indication that his body had spent a good part of the day re-building itself. His legs, though movable, were definitely going to be unable to support his weight for a long time.

Pushing his limits a bit, he very slowly attempted to sit by the side of the bed. The first part of this endeavor was successful, for he managed to shift to the edge and his upper body gave him few problems. Bending his legs caused discomfort, but nothing he couldn't handle, so he pushed on. However, pain lanced through his legs as he tried to lower them to the floor. He had no intention of actually putting any weight of them, of course, just dangle them from his bed. But the very pull of gravity caused him intense pain. Breathing deeply and gripping the bedside table, he patiently waited for the pain to subside.

"What's this?" a familiar gruff voice said from the door. Legolas sighed, and looked up to face Gimli's tirade about stubborn elves and the stupidity of going beyond one's limits. But his friend's face held a proud smile instead. Which further proved Legolas' theory that Gimli's ignorance of elven healing ability would either kill Legolas or force his body to heal in half the time it normally took. He hoped his friend had enough wisdom to not mention the tactic to Aragorn, though; the adopted son of Elrond would probably go into a seizure.

"Here, I brought your dinner." Gimli set the tray on the table.

"Thank you, my friend," Legolas said with a genuine smile of appreciation. "How did the council go?"

"Well." Gimli gave him a brief account of the council with the advisors, then the real one with Arwen. "The Rohirrim have faster mounts, but they're not as familiar with the terrain of Gondor, so they will be searching north of the City, from Amon Din down to roundabout Emyn Arnen. The Gondorians will search the south, around Lossarnach and Emyn Arnen, maybe follow the Anduin downstream for a while; perhaps the attackers had taken Aragorn and Faramir away down the river." There was a note in Gimli's voice, however, that said that he did not agree with this idea.

"Gimli, what is troubling you?" Legolas asked bluntly.

"The Sea-longing has grown stronger in you."

"No, it hasn't." Legolas automatically lied. "And how would you know?" He immediately regretted that statement, for he knew that it insulted Gimli. "I am sorry, my friend, I did not mean that. But why do you think it has?"

Gimli sighed, the light of the sunset reflecting from his deep eyes. Legolas suddenly thought that there was something different about the Dwarf now. This was a very different person from the one that had set out from Rivendell with the Fellowship six years ago. Gimli had been changed, and Legolas had a feeling he had not been completely blameless in bringing about this change. 

"I can see it, you know."

"See what, my friend?" Legolas asked gently. He had once likened Gimli's dark eyes to a deep cave; and now the light from the setting sun made it look as if a golden fire burned at the end of that cave. 

"The Sea-longing in you. It grows ever stronger, even as I speak to you now." The Dwarf's face grew anxious. "I am torn, Legolas, for I have need to tell you something. But I must ask this: what is foresight? Aragorn and the sons of Elrond always speak of it, yet I have never truly understood what it is."

That was a strange question. "It is difficult for me to explain this clearly, _elvellon_, for I do not have that gift myself."

"Please, Legolas. Try." Gimli's eyes implored him.

"Very well." The elf bit his lip- a habit he had picked up from Aragorn. "I believe it is a message of sorts conveyed through dreams or visions- mental imagery for the most part; songs or voices speaking in riddles occur also, but they are rare, and often only for things of great import. It strikes at the most unpredictable moments, usually with time for the receiver to change the course of events. That is what distinguished true foresight with the workings of the Shadow; the latter often only gave the receiver grief and pain at, say, knowing of the death of a loved one yet being unable to do anything to prevent it. The elves believe that Irmo, the Vala of dreams and visions, is responsible for foresight."

"Now, let me ask you, Gimli: do you believe you have been blessed with this gift?"

Gimli closed his eyes, his face in anguish. It was answer enough for Legolas. "And you have seen something about Faramir and Aragorn, correct?"

"No." Gimli turned away. "Yes, them as well. But I have seen something worse of you."

A cold shiver ran down his spine. Gimli wouldn't be so pained if the news was good. But did he really want to know? For a fleeting moment he was sorely tempted to ask Gimli not to tell him. He knew his friend would agree, would keep his vision secret even if it destroyed him. But Legolas couldn't do that, not to his dearest friend. So he asked heavily, "What did you see?"

Those deep caves refused to meet his own. "I saw you standing in darkness, and the only light there was coming from you. The light was bright and glorious, yet at the same time terrible. Half your face was covered in blood, but not your own. In your hand you held a shard of glass, and your fist was clenched so tightly that blood dripped from the hand." Gimli went silent.

Legolas felt a cold chill run down his spine. "And know you what it means, _elvellon_?"

"Not completely," Gimli said evasively. "But whatever the message, it cannot be good."

He felt somewhat relieved; for some reason, the fact that the vision could not be interpreted fully allowed him to dismiss it more easily. "Do not worry over it then, my friend," he said with a small comforting smile. But deep, deep in his heart, he felt a deep knell, and knew without knowing that Gimli's vision would come true.

~*~

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Why did you not tell him? A presistant voice in his mind asked, even as Gimli took his place on the comfortable chair placed right next to Legolas' bed. _It will happen, what ever you do._

__

Perhaps, he answered. _But I will do all in my power to stop it._

Aloud he said," Legolas, could I ask you to do something for me?"

"What is it, Gimli?" the elf asked softly, obviously already on his way to sleep.

"Tomorrow I shall be going with the Gondorian search party. I would ask you to remain in the City whilst I'm gone."

A small smile graced the immortal face. "Normally I would protest most vehemently, but in the light of my current physical state, even _I_ am not foolhardy enough to go riding when I can barely sit on my own."

"Thank you, my friend. Now sleep; I assured Arwen that I would have you up by breakfast, and you will need plenty of rest for such an endavour."

"Oh, was that what you two were whispering about?" Legolas chuckled. "I'm gratified to find that you have such trust in my healing abilities. I think I will go to sleep now, if only because I will not be able to do so once you drop off and begin snoring."

Deciding that throwing something at the Elf would only lead to Arwen stripping off his skin, Gimli settled for tussling Legolas' hair – which, he once belatedly discovered, utterly irritated the elven prince – and was rewarded when an arm reached out in response and gave him a good hard punch on the shoulder.

~**~

A visible change had come over Merry the past few days; the Hobbit had begun laughing again, a sound that Pippin had sorely missed, and would even jest with Elrohir. At first Pippin was glad, thinking that perhaps the travelling was finally having a good effect on Merry. The new Merry was a lot more like the innocent, carefree Hobbit that had once spent summers frolicking in mud piles with Pippin, though much to the chagrin of his parents.

Now that his worry over Merry had lessened, his own troubles seem to have begun surfacing. The talk with Elrohir had relieved some of the burden that had been growing in his heart, but with each hour it became heavier again. Had he been able to see himself, he would have thought that his face grew graver and grayer daily, and the light in his eyes was becoming dim, like it was being blanketed by smoke. He was beginning to feel as if the War of the Ring had only been yester-year; six years of rest felt like it had not passed. Old muscles injured by that great troll in the Pelennor Fields ached. He was tired, continuously anxious, and he would constantly remember that dreadful Eye that confronted him when he had foolishly looked into the Palantir of Orthanc.

One night, they set up camp near a cliff of a hill that apparently marked the start of the Misty Mountains. All was usual, yet Pippin was even more uneasy than usual, and it seemed to him that shadows flickered at the corner of his eyes. He thought he could hear voices in the wind, but they never formed any intelligible words. Around him the world looked strangely colourless and lifeless, and he both longed for the sun and feared it in his heart. He was, had he known it, the closest he had ever come to feeling what Frodo had experienced all those years ago during the Quest of the Mount Doom.

It occurred to him, of course, that perhaps he should consult Elrohir about this, but for some reason he could not quite bring himself to bother the elf with what, in his mind, was simply a symptom of stress. Besides, he couldn't even put to words what he was feeling, so how was he to convey it to Elrohir?

So, as was his habit of late, he wandered away from camp in an effort to clear his mind and anchor his thoughts. He was careful to keep their fire in sight, his hobbit-sense overriding even the shadows in his mind. 

Suddenly his foot struck something hard. Glancing down to see what it was whilst rubbing his painful toe, he saw the curved edge of what looked like a large stone structure was hidden by dense vegetation. Pushing back bushes, vines, and dead branches, he saw that it was a giant dish. Clearing away more vegetation, he saw that it was not a dish but the base of a large column. The smooth stone column stood as tall as the nearest tree, and was so covered in vines and intertwined with the forest life that he had mistaken it for just another tree.

Running his hands over the smooth stone- it felt like marble- his eye caught something else. It was a round disc, about the size of a Man's hand. It was transparent and clear, like glass, only when he tried picking it up, it felt like more like lifting a solid block of lead. Trying to get a better look, he held it up to the moonlight. The words "Fool of a Took!" rang through his head when, in characteristic Hobbit fashion, it slipped from his grip, fell, and broke in half.

It was a small, almost inconsequential noise, but somehow it reverberated through the small area of forest. The small _crack_ seemed to be accompanied by a greater one, something akin to the splitting of rock and the rending of air in a place far away and long forgotten by Time.

The wind howled.

**END OF PART I**

~*~

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Author's Note:

Again, a big thank-you to Jen, without whom this would probably be unintelligible. Her thesaurus-like mind has saved me from oblivion countless times. And many apologies again for the delay in update- took a one week trip that proceeded with a mega author's block. 

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Reviewer Responses:

Tammy- Thanks sweetie!

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Nilbrethiliel- Yay, another lurker pulling back her hood! And send me a crate of 'em shapeshifters, maybe they'll be interested in a game of Snap *g* Thank you!

**e-** yes, I'm trying to give Arwen a prominent role in this story, and Éowyn. And who says I can't keep Aragorn blind… obviously I can't but I'm growing rather fond of him in that state *evil cackle* Thanks!

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Acacea/acacia- like Arwen, I'm trying to build up some of the lesser seen characters. Gimli actually has a very special role in this story, and will be one of the only ones to have any inkling of what's going on. Not necessarily a good thing though, as you will see later. And I think I've been corrupted by the Theis sisters, for I'm suddenly awfully fond of Faramir.

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Grumpy- that's a bit of a mystery at the moment, but will be revealed in due time. You could speculate on it, and perhaps try to figure out who the mysterious elf is *another evil cackle* Thanks for reading!

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Lirenel- is that one of Miss Cam's mini-balrogs I see? I have to confess that I giggled for a straight five minutes at the image of Gomli wearing an apron, or a nurse's uniform (don't worry, he isn't in the story). Thank you!

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Sairavanie- you're not the only one, dahling. Mine is no longer intimidated with a picture of the Balrog in a Baywatch bikini, so I'm going to go off to try something else. Thanks very much, and good luck with your fic(s)! *plus a 'gentle' prod*


	10. Interlude in Valinor

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Interlude: Valinor

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"Estë the gentle, healer of hurts and of weariness, is his spouse. Grey is her raiment, and rest is her grief."  
- Valaquenta

Estë's grey raiment flowed out from behind her as she strode purposefully to the halls of Namo, the brother of her husband. Reaching Mandos, she respectfully stepped inside, where she met Vairë.

"Is all in readiness, then?" asked the Weaver.

Estë simply nodded. She followed Vairë deeper into the Hall; the Weaver's hand followed the cloth of the Ages that adorned the walls. As she walked Estë sang softly, giving comfort and wishing healing to the spirits that dwell within the Hall. Suddenly Vairë stopped at a section of her web.

"It is here," she heard her whisper softly, reluctance in her voice. "All is in readiness?" she asked again.

"My lord Irmo hath already begun the undoing," Estë replied. 

"And my lord Námo hath prepared he who must return," said Vairë. Her eyes were doubtful. "We have never done such a thing before."

"Yet it must be done," said Estë resolutely. "It should not have been allowed to come to pass in the first place. Lord Manwë himself gives his blessing; this abomination hath grieved all of our kindred these past Ages."

Vairë nodded. She touched the section of the cloth, looking at the pattern with utmost care, memorising the complex weaves that took in time, space and thought. Then she went forwards in time, following the web to the present that was yet to happen. "I shall weave the exact same pattern," she explained softly. "So that the past will come forth, and be undone in the future."

It was then that Nienna came, silently; her grief-lined face set in determination. For Nienna was greater in power than Vairë and Estë, and ere the end it would be her Power that will break the barriers. 

Vairë began weaving, as Estë and Nienna combined their Powers and lifted up their voices in song.

Here begins **PART II: Walk the Path of Dreams**


	11. Stone to bind

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"To Melkor among the Ainur had been given the greatest gifts of power and knowledge, and he had a share in all the gifts of his brethren. He had gone often alone into the voice places seeking the Imperishable Flame, for desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own…"   
- Ainulindalë

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Stone to Bind…

"You did not tell him."

Gimli jumped in surprise. It appeared that he had fallen asleep in Legolas' room in the Houses of Healing. He was sitting in his usual chair next to the bed, and the elf was sleeping peacefully beside him. Sunlight pouring through the window told him that it was around noon.

But not all was how it had been when he had last looked, for now a figure stood at the foot of his friend's bed.

The Elf, easily identifiable by his pointed ears and the proud yet distant expression on his face no mortal could imitate, looked disturbingly familiar to Gimli. His hair was golden, and his eyes weighed down by countless millennia, though his skin, as it was with his kind, showed no wrinkle or imperfection. The stranger had arched an eyebrow at him, and it took a moment for the shock to pass before Gimli realised that the elf had asked a question.

"H-how could I?" The Dwarf looked at his hands, unable to bear the eyes of the Elf. Gimli had developed a resistance to Legolas' eyes, and those of his kin, to a certain extent, but this Elf was far mightier in stature, and far, far older. His eyes traveled to his friend's face, still asleep. Somewhere in his puzzled mind he wondered why Legolas hadn't woken at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Being in a deep rejuvenating sleep, the prince's eyes were closed. The weight in Gimli's heart increased at being reminded of what he had not had the courage to say. "How do you tell someone that they're going to die?"

"How do you, indeed," the Elf echoed. Gimli's gaze returned to the stranger; the Elf was now looking at Legolas, a sad, almost wistful expression on his fair face.

"It will happen, whether you will it or no."

Gimli nodded, opening his mouth to respond. But the Elf was gone.

~*~

Éowyn anxiously fingered the small stone hanging from a leather strap around her neck. Faramir had given it to her, long ago when he had realised that as much as he wanted to stay home and be a dutiful husband, his obligation to the Kingdom had to come first. She had understood; she had lived her entire life with the phrase 'for your people'.

But now for the first time she was worried solely for her family. As much as she had come to love Gondor, in her mind it was still a foreign country, and she had yet to reach the point where she would sacrifice all for the sake of the kingdom. She would sacrifice all for the people of Gondor, but the proud history and ancient culture was still beyond the reach of her heart's embrace.

She had talked with her brother for a long time, listening with keen interest as he eagerly told of the goings-on in Rohan and asking pointed questions about the welfare of the people. She had missed Éomer, especially now that they both had their own families to attend to. Thus she treasured every moment she could spend with the only one of her family remaining.

But tonight even their talks couldn't ease her heart. True, Éomer was the only family she had left, after the death of Théoden King; yet he was a past that she cherished but had put behind her. Faramir was part of her hope and dreams for the future.

Dear, dear Faramir, who loved her for the spirit that was in her. He loved her for her bravery, her skill, the fact that she had just as much knowledge of warfare as him. When she saw her reflection in his eyes, she saw a woman worthy of such a husband.

And she knew that she would find no other. She would have no other.

For a long time, she lay in bed, the stone turning warm under her fingers.

~*~

The world went dark.

Wind screamed in his ears. His skin was cold, like ice.

He wanted to run. He knew he had to. Some deep-seated instinct within him told him to run, run and run until he escaped this unnatural night. The instinct was old, long-forgotten, but it lay in all Elves, passed down from those who first awoke under the gems of Varda. Fear, fear of this ancient malicious darkness.

Something grabbed his waist, pulled him down. His limbs instinctively tensed to fight, but how does one grapple with utter darkness? He wanted to scream, but the very air was torn from his lungs. His heart lurched. One by one each limb was seared with pain. He burned, but he could not see in this dark. Dimly he thought he heard something snap. But he was beyond caring, beyond anything but making sure his heart kept beating. For some reason he felt that this was important, though he could no longer remember why.

As if waiting for this small show of resistance, pain beyond all pain entered his mind, and though he was without voice, without breath, he screamed.

Leagues away, Elladan screamed with him. Then, for the first time in his life, the Lord of Imladris was alone.

~*~

Being a warrior for centuries, slipping into the deeper realm of dreams was still an unusual experience for Legolas. He always kept a bit of himself semi-conscious, alert for a sense of danger. But his body recovered best in this deepest of sleeps, and the grevious injuries that he had suffered would take weeks to recover without such sleep. 

Yet this time, there was something… different. Instead of drifting, he felt himself being… pulled. Already uncomfortable being this deeply asleep, something alarmed him enough to open his eyes.

Except…

Seeing someone in front of him, his already heightened senses reflexively tensed his muscles. A few moments passed; neither he nor the other person moved. He cautiously lifted his right hand. The other person lifted his left simultaneously.

He chuckled- it was a mirror! He felt a flush of embarrassment at his reaction, and was immediately glad that Gimli hadn't been around to watch his foolishness. The Dwarf would have teased him endlessly for days.

The thought of Gimli brought memory back. His last memory had been of falling asleep in the Houses of Healing. Had something happened since then? He frowned, straining his mind. Where was he? How had he gotten to this place? 

Still confused, he examined his surroundings. He was even more startled to see that he was virtually surrounded by mirrors. On closer inspection, he saw that they were not real mirrors but roughly hewn slabs of rock with extremely reflective surfaces. The edges of the rocks were sharp, and most of the 'mirrors' looked as if they had been smashed into their current shapes. Bits of the rock littered the ground, and he could feel their sharpness through his light boots.

The air was cold, though as an Elf he wasn't overly concerned about that yet. He must be underground, and in a vast cavern too, if the way the reverberation of the sound from the shifting of his feet was anything to go by. Some sort of blue light illuminated the place, but he couldn't see the source. 

How did he get here? Where was 'here'? 

"A Sindar?"

He whirled around, not having heard anyone approach.

"But- oh my, isn't he a gem?"

He couldn't see anyone. Turning to where the voice was coming from, all he saw was his reflection on a particularly large slab of rock.

Which smirked at him.

Eyes going wide, he stepped backwards. 

"Do not be afraid, my dear Sindar. I cannot harm you- physically, anyway."

His couldn't help shuffling to the side. His imagination must be playing tricks on him. He couldn't possibly be talking to his…

The stranger had no sides, or back. All Legolas could see was rock. 

"If it makes you feel any better, think of me as a figment of your imagination."

Legolas gaped at his 'reflection', who was moving and talking quite independently from him. Perhaps he was…

"I'm in a dream," he whispered.

The stranger shrugged. "For now."

His rational mind satisfied- after all, anything could happen in dreams- he took a good look at the other Legolas. 

He had the same golden hair, the same blue eyes. But after a while Legolas wondered how he had thought the other to be his reflection, for they looked considerably different. The mirror-Legolas was ever so slightly shorter, with a build that was unmistakably Noldorin. The hair had more silver in it, and the eyes were of a lighter blue.

But it wasn't his physicality that was so vastly different- it was his expression, the soul behind his eyes, which made Legolas shiver to think that he had thought them to be the same. The face was cold, bordering on cruel, bearing the expression of one who was suffering and wished others to suffer their pain as well. Haunted eyes stared at the prince.

"You see it, don't you? Yet you are young, too young to understand what you see," the Elf said, his lips setting into a grim smile. "Take a look then, fair one! See how a betrayer is marked!"

Cold, cold eyes drilled into his. A chill went down his spine. "Wh-who are you?" he asked softly, licking dry lips.

"You do not know? But of course- there is no one to remember, is there? All who know are trapped, even as I am." The Elf peered more closely at him, seeming to see right through him, and Legolas had to swallow and tense his body to prevent from cringing at the intense gaze from those penetrative eyes. "I see now. So that is why you are here- I thought it a mere coincidence, a wandering mind."

"What- what do you mean?" 

For the first time, the Elf seemed truly pleased, but the smile only clenched a fist of fear around Legolas' heart. 

"You will see. Soon, as the barriers weaken, you will know. But you asked me who I am. How rude of me, to give you half-riddles. Come, I will show you who I am- what I am." The Elf held out his hand, beckoning to Legolas.

The son of Thranduil felt the strongest desire to run, to run and never look upon this stranger again. But a part of him felt curious, sympathetic even, and it was that which made him take his first step towards the 'mirror'. 

"That's it. Come. I am only an image in your dream- I cannot hurt you."

A dimming part of Legolas' mind recalled the words, "I cannot harm you- physically anyway." But his caution and distrust seemed to be swept away by an overwhelming curiosity. He closed the distance between himself and the 'mirror'.

"Now, reach out your hand."

In a near-trance state, Legolas raised his right hand to touch the surface of the stone, where the Elf's hand was. He felt cold, cold beyond ice seize his hand, and pull him into darkness.

Worse than darkness.

~*~

Author's Notes:

Finally got this out! Was planning on updating several days ago, but couldn't get on FF.Net. Hope everything's sorted out by now. And to those reading Race with Wrath, I've started hammering at it again, so I may update it soon.

As for this fic, I'm afraid it'll be turning rather dark soon, and I may up the rating to R. But if you love angst and character-torture, you might want to hang around *g*. Thank you so much to everyone who has stayed with this!

Reviewer's Response:

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Tereza- thank you, and a belated welcome to FF.Net. I see you've got your own story by now, and I shall definitely go over and read it in a moment (hopes FF.Net doesn't collapse in the meantime). I'm getting to like Gimli too, and he gets a most interesting role in the plot.

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Lirenel- only if you're good! *lol* Thanks for dropping by, proofread or not (winks)!

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cm- sorry it's taking such a long time, but RL pulls you away quite a lot nowadays *sulks*

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Littlefish- Wow! I'm absolutely ecstatic to see such a renowned writer review my story *falls to knees* Thank you soo much! I see we have another Aragorn/Faramir fan, so I'm planning quite a bit of torture for those two in the future *cackles evilly*. I've read your stories too, though am ashamed to admit that I haven't reviewed (a state which I plan to change very soon). Again, thank you for your many kind words, and I'm positively flattered!


	12. and break asunder

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"… and it seemed to him that Iluvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness. Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Iluvatar. But being alone he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren."   
- Ainulindalë

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… and break asunder

An unearthly scream shattered the air.

Arwen jolted upright, barely having rested. Her heart froze, recognising the voice. Pulling on a robe, she quickly slipped out of the royal apartments; the stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she headed down the corridors, past surprised Guards and startled servants. She counted the doors.

Not that she needed to; the screaming had changed into a sort of ghastly wailing, and the agony in it tore at her terrified heart. When she finally got to his bedchamber, she saw that the door was already open.

Inside she found a pale-faced and trembling Derinsul holding down Elladan. Her brother's body arched and struggled beneath the Heir's strong grip, flailing limbs occasionally striking the Sindar prince, but Derinsul's hold did not lessen.

Sending a grateful look to the prince, Arwen stepped forwards and seized Elladan's body into a fierce embrace. The Lord of Imladris calmed slightly at her touch, though his wailing continued, doubling in intensity. Sweat drenched his bedclothes, his skin was clammy and as pale as his bedsheets.

"Hush, hush, _muindor-nin_," she whispered into his ear, tightening her embrace and rocking him slightly as she cradled him like a child. His hands reached up and gripped her arms, like he never wanted to be parted from her. Deep in her heart a growing dread whispered suggestions on what could have put him in such a state. "I am here; I have you now. Let the storm pass."

"ADA!" he cried out, his body arching, tears streaming down his face to mingle with his sweat. "ADA! Help me ada!"

Unbidden tears coursed down her cheeks. She had only seen him like this a few times, when she was very young, for by the time she was born the twins were already growing out of nightmares. More often they would comfort _her_. But in those rare times, when terror would take one or both (usually the latter) in the middle of the night, they had always called for their mother and father. When Celebrian left, the nightmares returned; Arwen had had them also, though not to the extent of her brothers', who had ventured into the very dens of terror to rescue their mother. Their father, burdened with his own grief and nightmares, somehow managed to comfort them all and survive the ordeal. Thankfully Erestor and Glorfindel were more than willing to take the bulk of the work of running the realm whilst the family gradually recovered.

But their father was not there now. There was only Arwen, mortal and carrying an immense worry over her missing husband, and Derinsul, the oldest son of Thranduil who had had a blazing row with Elladan only hours before because Elladan refused to let him visit Legolas.

"Is- is he all right?" Derinsul asked, almost timidly.

"I do not know, but I do not think so," she replied softly as she smoothed back her brother's dark hair, damp from his sweat and her tears. "Elladan, ada is not here. He has gone to rest. But Arwen is holding you; you trust Arwen, do you not? Come back now, come back to us." She looked into open storm-grey eyes, bearing the blankness of a sleeping elf, and saw the tendrils of pain writhing deep within.

She repeated those words, over and over again, calling out to her anguished brother. Slowly, his body calmed, though his tears still streamed from pain-filled eyes. His wailing was replaced by sobs that shook his entire being. Awareness gradually returned to his eyes, and they slowly fixed on the familiar face of Arwen. 

He gazed at her for a moment, recognising her. The storm-grey eyes, exactly like those of their father, widened. His body shook, though less violently now, like it was exhausted. Then he took a deep breath, and let out a second piercing cry of utter anguish.

Arwen's heart quailed. The cry was laden with such exquisite agony and unbearable grief that she wondered if Manwë himself would come and strike Elladan down for disturbing the heavens. She barely registered the arrival of a shaking Éowyn at the door before Elladan's breath finally ran out, and he slumped forwards in her arms.

"Elladan? Elladan?" She shook him, lightly patting his cold face. Empty eyes stared back at her, yet unseeing. His lips barely moved, but she heard the words uttered.

"'S gone. I cannot live without -."

His eyes closed. Her heart stopped.

Then another scream rent the air.

~*~

"Legolas? LEGOLAS!!"

Eyes snapped open. Light silver-blue orbs regarded the Dwarf calmly, curiously.

Then it saw the crystal hanging around the Dwarf's neck. The eyes widened with fear, then went blank again.

"Legolas?"

Awareness returned to the eyes, slowly, languidly. On sheer impulse Gimli reached out and brushed hair off the elf's fair face. The flawless skin was clammy, reminding him of marble and crystal. Legolas drew a shuddering breath, then began screaming again, though it was more of a cry of defiance than the earlier shrieking. Gimli could just about distinguish words.

"NO! Leave me be! I do not wish to see!"

"Legolas!" Gimli bellowed. The screaming stopped; deep, deep blue eyes regarded him again, confused and unfocused, and filled with fear.

"Gimli?"

"I am here, my friend. The dream has passed- come back fully now."

Legolas' body stirred as he shifted, eyes gradually focusing as Legolas retreated from the world of elven dreams. The Lord of Aglarond saw that his friend's clothes were drenched in sweat, though the night was particularly cold and windy. Legolas didn't seem to notice, but peered at the room, as if he was trying to make sure he really was awake. Gimli knew the feeling too well.

"You had a nightmare?"

Legolas shuddered. "Yes, and no. It was a dream, but…"

"It seemed real?"  


Legolas gingerly sat up and rolled his legs off the bed, so that he was sitting on the side. His hands trembled, and he half-heartedly attempted to hide it by putting his face in his hands and taking deep, calming breaths. Something else nagged at Gimli's mind, but so scattered were his thoughts that it took him a full minute to realise. He gasped.

"What is it?" Legolas asked worriedly.

"Your legs!" At the Elf's confused expression- apparently this was not a comment he had been expecting- he added, "As I recall, you were having difficulty just moving them last night!"

:Legolas blinked, then understanding dawned on him. He stared at his legs, tentatively moving them. "Ai, I had forgotten, and so had my legs, it seems." He prodded the injured limbs, and seemed surprised by what he found. "AI, It hurts still, yes, and I will not be doing any running for some time." Now the ageless face wore the expression of someone determined to find that silver lining in really dark stormclouds. "But it appears that the bones have healed, and most of the muscles!" 

The two of them were silent for a moment. Then the barely perceptible sound of an Elf running with more thought on speed than stealth tracked its owner as he came up the stairs and down the corridor. Derinsul appeared at the doorway.

Gimli had already gotten up in alarm. "What has happened, Derinsul?"

Even to one who tried not to spend more than a minute in the same room with the Elf, it was quite clear that Derinsul was not in a serene state of mind. His face was pale, his eyes deeply anxious, and his breathing was erratic, indicating that great fear had been the motivation for his recent sprint. And there were, in Gimli's limited yet highly perceptible experience, very few things that could frighten Derinsul of Mirkwood. In any case, half the riddle was solved when the light blue eyes sought out Legolas first.

"Nightmare," Gimli said bluntly, ignoring the affronted look on Legolas' face, who obviously did not agree with his brother knowing about it. "Did you have one also?"

It was characteristic Dwarven frankness, and for once Derinsul didn't take offence. Or at least thought that there were more important things to worry over. Gimli's heart grew heavier. "No," he said slowly. "But I think Lord Elladan did- did you not hear him?"

Gimli frowned. "Nay, I only awoke when Legolas, erm, became distressed." Then again, one could not survive in the company of Elves without _a bit_ of subtlety. 

Derinsul nodded. He turned to his brother. "You are well, _muindor_?"

"Yes," replied the Elf haughtily, unconsciously sitting up straighter. "Thank you for asking." But those who knew Legolas well, a category the other two occupants of the room at the moment fell under, would notice his paleness, and the slight unsteadiness in the movements of his extremities. Derinsul and Gimli simultaneously arched an eyebrow, glanced at each other, and reached a silent agreement.

"I'm afraid Lord Elladan is far worse off, and will be unable to tell us anything coherent for some time," said Derinsul quietly. "Perhaps you could shed some light on this, Legolas?"

"He can't," answered Gimli before Legolas could form even a mental response. "They had different dreams."

Derinsul studied Gimli under a look that he had copied, down to the last eyebrow, from his father during particularly long council meetings in which Thranduil was rather short of temper. Gimli, in his couple of visits to his best friend's homeland, had seen it himself on the King. After a moment's thought, Derinsul nodded. Gimli was quite surprised at this, but did not say anything.

Then Arwen arrived, her normally radiant face looking extremely weary and frightened. She saw Legolas sitting up and seemed to nearly collapse with relief. Gimli handed her a glass of water.

"Lady Arwen, how is Lord Elladan?" asked Derinsul. 

She shook her head. "Unconscious. I don't know what has happened, yet I fear the worst."

Gimli noted that Legolas' was now intently studying his feet. His arms were beginning to tremble again, and his breathing sounded a trifle unsteady. He didn't think Derinsul and Arwen would notice for a few more minutes. 

__

It's best if they don't.

__

If you say so. Clearing his throat, Gimli spoke up. "Was Elladan saying anything?"

Arwen nodded. "Yes, he said "Gone, I cannot live without " until he lapsed into unconsciousness. Then we heard Legolas." At this her eyes went to the prince, but to Gimli's relief he seemed to have temporarily recovered and met Arwen's gaze.

"A lover, perhaps?" The Queen gave Derinsul a look. A characteristically Elrond look. He flushed a little. "My apologies, I spoke without thinking."

__

Tell them.

"No, not a lover," Gimli said calmly, drawing the attention of the two.

"Who, then?" Arwen asked, though her face quite clearly showed that deep down she already knew, and was only reluctant to have her fears confirmed.

"Elrohir. He cannot feel his twin anymore."

~*~

Aragorn was tired of the darkness. 

For hours they had been trudging along, step after uncertain step. Occasionally a sound or a rumble of the earth would cause them to change directions, and they came upon several crossroads at which Faramir would randomly choose a corridor. He was nearly entirely dependant on his Steward, and as much as he loved and respected Faramir, he was beginning to take out his increasing frustration on the man.

"Aragorn?"

"I am fine, Faramir," he growled, then caught himself and attempted to lessen the sharp edge to his voice. "I think it is you who needs a rest, my friend."

A moment of silence, then "Perhaps I do." The King of Gondor felt slightly ashamed at his behaviour; it wasn't Faramir's fault that they were lost and he was blind, and the man was only trying to help him. And to add to Aragorn's mounting frustration, an hour or so ago he had started getting a nagging feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. Like something had been taken from him. 

His stomach grumbled. _As if I'd forgotten that we haven't eaten for over a day now, probably longer._

They continued for a few more minutes, apparently to some rocks that they could sit on, where Aragorn gently lowered Faramir. The ground beneath them in this underground corridor felt soft, bordering on mud. Earlier they had come across smooth, slippery stone, as well as sharp skin-grazing rocks. Neither had any idea of where they were going, or what exactly they were looking for, but continued in the hope that walking would eventually get them _somewhere,_ and was surely better than just waiting around.

At the moment, there was very little to be optimistic about.

"Faramir, perhaps you should sleep a little," he suggested, after clumsily seating himself near his companion.

"But what if something happens?"

"Does the place we are in look safe?"

He heard Faramir shift as he looked carefully around them. "Seems so, for now. But I cannot see very far down the cave."

"Then you should sleep," Aragorn said firmly. "Do not worry, I can hear anything that comes, and I shall wake you," Aragorn continued, trying to make his voice gentler. _It's not Faramir's fault. Most likely it's yours._ "You are injured. Sleep will help your body heal; having you collapse in exhaustion will only double our danger, for though I can lift you I will be unable to go anywhere."

Faramir sighed with resignation. "Very well. I have a feeling you will not stop pestering me until I do, in any case."

"Sleep well; I'll be here if the shadow-monster pays a visit."

"You are most amusing, my King."

"I know."

He heard some small rocks tumble down as Faramir slowly laid back and stretched out. Wishing wistfully for a pipe and a packet of good Shire-weed, Aragorn sighed and leaned back against the cold corridor wall, staring at the darkness.

~*~

Author's Notes:

Sigh, unfortunately I can't spend my whole time writing, so these updates are coming out less often than I'd like. Really sorry about that, and thank you to all who are still reading. My excellent beta Jen, I hope RL is treating your all right!

Oh, and a big well done to Maggie and Erin Theis, who now have a beautiful new ToE layout. And Nat for being famous. A hello also to Trish, who I've managed to lure into the LOTR Plaza (go me!). Apologies to all who I owe reviews to (and I know there are many), I'm unfortunately a patron of the Pits of Lurkdom and Laziness. 

Reviewer Response:

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xx embyr- *lol* The Easter bunny image is great, and probably true. Thank you so much, and hope you're neighbours are being nice! I'm really glad you like my characterisations, because it's just occurred to me that I have *way* too many characters in this fic, and juggling their different personalities is a headache. Will probably not want to do this again any time soon ^_^ Thank you again, and it was my pleasure to dedicate a chapter to one of my most loyal reviewers!

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Aria7- *glomps* Will not tell about 'mysterious elf' yet, though will leave you with something equally excruciating- there are, actually, more than one Elf. Quite a few more, actually.(goes off to take cover) But sharp eyes, spotting the description! Thank you!

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edeyle- Thank you very much, such words definitely make writing worth it. Hope you enjoy further chapters!

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Hildestohl- Welcome to the club of Who-Is-The-Mystery-Elf *g* Thank you very much, I'm cutting down the chapter sizes due to pace, and also to help me (I find it hard to proof-read overly large chapters). Do start writing, as it's real fun; I'll review if you do! And if you have need of plot bunnies you can look at challenges in archive sites like Tower of Ecthelion () or Henneth-Annun ().

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Littlefish- once again, am greatly honoured by such an esteemed author commenting on my work. Also greatly relieved that you could tell it was Elrohir who I pulled the plug off, so to speak, because I wasn't sure I made it clear enough. I am planning angst for nearly every character, but whether or not I'll pull it off remains to be seen. I do know now that it's *extremely* difficult to juggle so many protagonists in one fic. I suppose this chapter hasn't helped with the cliffie situation ^_^ but I do my best *g* I try sticking to canon as best as I can, but if worse comes to worse I'll tack a 'slightly-AU' sign on it. Thank you so much, and congratulations on finishing HoH (an excellent story, and one I look forward to reviewing once I finish reading it *guilty grin*)!!

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A Fan- Thank you, and to make you happy there will indeed be a great deal of Legolas-angst in later chapters. The next one has some, in fact. As for the plot, whilst I thought I had a clear plan for the story, it is now somewhere in the dirt that Aragorn and Faramir are treading on. The story mutates as I go along, so even I have no idea what's going to happen. Wish me luck!

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Trish- eeek, a double attack! And yes indeed, sweetie, I do love cliffies. And I don't mind shapeshifters; I've been wanting to try out my deadly mechanical pencil darts on something. Hope Spain's being nice to you, and do come online more often! Thank you for reviewing *huggles*

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chris- yay, I've got a new reader! Thank you for being interested, chris, and have a safe holiday! 


	13. Poisoned paths

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"Memory is not what the heart desires. This is only a mirror, be it as clear as Khered-zaram. Or so says the heart of Gimli the Dwarf. Elves may see things otherwise…"  
- Farewell to Lorien, Book II

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Poisoned paths…

It was as if he was a young child all over again..

He would have terrible dreams, of darkness and monsters and being trapped underground. But he always awoke to see his father or Derinsul sitting by his bed, telling him that he was safe. It was not unusual, his father had said, for Elves to have such nightmares, especially living so close to the shadow of Dol Guldur. Legolas had gotten the worst kinds, in which every night was a wearying battle against some indefinable fear. It became so terrible that the main reason behind his decision to choose the warrior's life was the security he hoped to find in being able to defend himself. 

In time the nightmares went away. He had thought that he had outgrown them, but now he wondered if the darkness hadn't ingrained itself in him and had lain dormant for so long, only to re-emerge now when his mental systems were preoccupied with healing his body. He had never been injured this badly before, after all.

Lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, shivering with an ice-cold skin, he was back in his old bedroom, and just as defenseless. Centuries of training had not made him feel any less vulnerable, had not lessened the suffocating dread.

And as much as he struggled against it, his injured body spoke in a louder voice. His eyelids gradually got heavier….

… and he was back there again, back in that chamber of mirrors.

"Hail, Prince Legolas," said a cold, familiar voice behind him. Whirling around, he faced the golden-haired stranger, eyes of ice gazing out at him from his strange mirror. "I see you have returned."

"Stay away from me!" Legolas croaked, stepping backwards. Glass-rock crunched under his boots. "You are no Elf- you are a monster!"

The stranger smiled grimly. "You did not like what you saw, did you?"

Images that he would never be able to erase from his mind flitted past. "You are an abomination! Murderer! Betrayer!"

"Yes, I am all those things, and more," said the Elf. _No, not an Elf_. "Knowledge is a burden, is it not? Yet do not blame me for your possession of this knowledge. You _chose_ to touch the mirror."

He opened his mouth to retort, but what could he say? It was true. He had been curious. It had always been a failing of his. _Amongst many_. And in this case, if curiosity did not kill, it would scar for life. Something else clicked in his mind, and his eyes narrowed. "How did you know my name?"

At this the stranger chuckled, but the sound held no mirth. "You did not know, did you? O how foolish are the young! I opened my mind to you, dear prince; and in return, yours was revealed to me."

Legolas felt sick. "You- you went through my mind?"

"Yes." The Elf leered. "You have many secrets, son of Thranduil. I am an abomination, you say? I will not contest this. But each to his demons; are you so pure of heart?." He thrust out an arm, and pointed at an adjoining rock-mirror. Though Legolas' mind screamed against it, and even his eyes seemed reluctant to move, Legolas looked. 

At first nothing happened, and all he saw was his own reflection staring back at him, pale and frightened. Then the image changed, swirling into a thousand threads of colour that blended and interwove. Eventually the colours calmed, and formed into an image…

…it was similar to his first experience of entering the 'mirror', except this one pulled him into it, against his own will. Colours and light danced around him. He felt like he was floating. He could not move.

__

Weak. The mirrors find weakness. _You let them gain foothold on you, and you lose your power to resist._

"What do you want, Greenleaf? Surely there is something you desire?" He could see the mocking eyes in his mind, watching him with disdain, leering at his weakness.

"What about… the most beautiful maiden in the world?"

Streams of colour spun faster. An imperceptible roar of non-existent wind, and suddenly he stood at a bridge to the Last Homely House. Arwen stood in front of him, radiant and beautiful, smiling in the special way she did only for Aragorn.

"I do not love her," he said through gritted teeth, slightly surprised at finding his mouth not frozen like the rest of him. 

__

You do not lust?

"She is the fairest in all of Middle-earth. But I love her like the sister that I have lost, and her deserving husband is the brother of my heart. I will not betray them."

The image dissolved. Strangely enough everything was silent, except for the distant whisper of wind amongst branches. 

"What about treasure?"

Gold filled his vision. Glades of gold and silver and jewels, the treasures of the world. Wealth beyond that possessed by any single individual in the history. 

__

Surely he can do better than this? he thought with a good measure of suspicion. "My father once led an _army_ to claim a part in the lost treasure of Erebor, and my best of friends is a Dwarf. Yet I hold both, family and friends, dearer than all this."

Once again the image was gone. Light and colour swirled in confusing patterns. The distant wind was like a solemn sighing for lost things, lost people.

"Very noble. But what about power?"

A crown, a golden throne. A scepter studded with rare gems. A realm stretching over all of Middle-Earth. Servants to see to his every whim. The power to do whatever his heart desired. 

__

The most restrictive freedom of all, Legolas' mind supplied with a hint of cynicism. "You cannot tempt me with such dreams, Betrayer. I am a wood-elf of the trees and sunlight, a prince only by accident of birth. I do not desire this."

__

He does not know, Legolas mentally told himself as the colours once again disintegrated into separate beams and strands. Fear began ebbing away, to be replaced by a sparkle of hope. _He wants to find a way into my mind. He tried to read my thoughts, but I am stronger than him. He is guessing._

Please let him be guessing.

"Foolish, foolish Elfling." Despite being held fast by an invisible force, Legolas' eyes instinctively tried to widen. The stranger Elf, in full three-dimensional being, stepped through the curtain of colour and stood before him. "Pride is always the first downfall."

His body was released. Legolas felt himself dropping, falling through the insubstantial world of colours. He felt an hand grab his arm, pulling him up sharply enough for him to gasp in pain. He felt some sort of ground solidify beneath him, in the form of a semi-translucent green circle. The strange elf still stood as if suspended in mid-air, smiling at him predatorily.

"Do you know what you have just _done_, my Legolas?"

He wanted to step back, put more distance between himself and that face chiseled from ashes and blood. "What do you mean?"

The Elf shook his head, eyes sparkling in suppressed mirth. "It is true, I could not enter all of your mind. You have strong defences, for a Moriquendi, most of which I'm sure you are not even aware of. But what I could not extract, you just foolishly gave."

__

He lies! He seeks to frighten me into surrendering. He has no power over me!

That cruel, cold smile again. "Don't I? Your own fear betrays you. You feared me learning your name, but your fear only put it foremost in your thoughts, allowing me to pluck it easily."

Trembling with fear, Legolas' panicked brain tried to recount what he had done, what he had _said_... 

__

No. The numbing chill of realisation made the world stop for a moment. He felt paralysed. If he dwelt on it, the tears would come, or perhaps madness. He longed for the latter. _No… _

__

Aye, foolish Elf indeed. 

"What is it you want with me?" he asked weakly.

The mirth in the ancient eyes turned into a sort of hunger. It would have comforted the son of Thranduil if what he saw was some kind of hunger he could identify, something basic. Instead it was a longing only a being unmarked by time could know, a hunger for the world of life and all its components. "Give me your body, Legolas. I wish to feel the world again. Too long have I wandered in the dark recesses of this filthy prison, with no company but that of the twisted, misshappen failures of the Master's creativity. To feel nothing, not even the heathen fire or the burning acid. To live with the past, every moment of wretched existence. Set me _free_."

There could be no air there, in this world within a mirror. No wind. Yet there was a sound of distant roaring, putting to mind swift breezes in a young summer, of birds and trees and sunlight, preserved there inside the glass. Memory, of-

"_No_!"

The world was suddenly filled with the sound of shattering glass. As if he had physically been in a mirror, he felt himself break into a thousand pieces. At the same time, the sharp pieces were flying into him, digging into him with purpose, breaking skin and tissue, separating into even smaller pieces that penetrated the very fabric of his being. 

"I am afraid you have little choice in the matter." He opened his eyes almost reluctantly, afraid of what he might see. The mirror-rock was gone. Shattered pieces, all that remained of it, littered the ground around his bare feet. Reluctantly he brought up his hands to feel his skin, not wanting to show weakness yet remembering too well the feel of the shards cutting into him. But he was untouched, and bringing his eyes down he saw that his skin was unmarred and unbroken. Yet he could not shake the feeling of the shards embedded in him. 

The Elf, back as an image in a mirror, sighed, and he suddenly lost his crystalline agelessness. Though the physical features did not change, in this dream state Legolas could see a little beyond the realm of the Seen, and in the youthful form the Elf was an old, old being. For a moment he seemed sad about something. Disappointed.

Then the winter returned. "You have seen what I can do. I have already found a way to enter the outside world; I remember the taste of your flesh, the scent of warm blood. The one you love like a brother is within my maze. The lady and the Dwarf cannot stay in the City forever. I believe your brother is near. Would you like to know what I can do to them?"

__

No… He is trying to trap me with falsehoods… He cannot get out himself. I am his only way out. 

A hand rose up and reached out to him. Though nothing protruded from the mirror's surface, Legolas felt a cold touch to his brow. 

"I shall let you wake, once more. But do not tarry in returning." 

~*~

It was easily the most wretched few hours of Éowyn's life up to that point.

Feeling somewhat useless and abandoned, she sat nervously on a chair next to the Lord of Imladris' still form. A basin of water and towels had been brought to her, as ordered by the Queen, and not knowing what else to do she let her recent training in the healing arts to take over. Hands automatically dipped a towel into the water, squeeze out excess water, and wipe it on the half-Elf's sweaty brow. The simple task allowed her to occupy her normally-restless hands with something useful, yet did not require too much in the way of conscious thought, So even as she slowly worked, her mind tried to get a grasp of what was happening.

First and foremost in her mind was Faramir. She missed his strength, his wisdom, and his ability to diffuse the tension in her with a few well-chosen words. At the moment she had need for all three skills.

She was much perplexed by what was happening. Arwen, in that subtle way of hers that Éowyn was beginning to associate with elven diplomacy, had made it painfully clear to everyone that she did not wish anyone visiting Prince Legolas without her knowledge. Éowyn assumed that the wise daughter of Elrond knew something of what was afoot, and six years of experience had taught the White Lady of Rohan not to inquire as to her friend's motives before she was ready to share them.

Beneath her touch Elladan looked to be in deep sleep; if it weren't for his eyes closed shut Éowyn would have thought him to be in peaceful slumber. Only minute traces remained of the grief with which he had woken half the Citadel. 

Gazing at his ageless face, bearing the strength of Men from the Elder Days yet with the beauty of the Firstborn, she wondered what could hurt such fair creatures…

She frowned.

Legolas. Elladan. _One Elf_, _one half-Elf_. Sheer coincidence? Éowyn was quite a methodical person when it came to figuring things out, and had misgivings about looking for 'patterns' and similarities between incidents when there were none. But her mind had spent too long worrying helplessly, too long imagining what could have happened to her beloved as she lay alone in the dark, to be able to stop herself speculating.

Was Elladan's condition related to the massacre of the Guards and the disappearance of Aragorn and Faramir? Éowyn found it hard to believe that it could be an isolated incident. Legolas greaviously injured, Elladan unconscious, Aragorn and Faramir gone…

All right, start at the beginning. Perhaps it was a form of evil left over from the War of the Ring. The Elf and half-Elf seem to be struck the hardest. Then again, Aragorn and Faramir weren't around for a compatison, and Éowyn didn't want to dwell on how much worse they can be from Elladan and Legolas yet still be alive. 

The Elf had been left behind, on the doorstep of death. Yet surely it was significant that he was still alive, when around him men had been brutally mutilated. _Men…_

Elladan, half-Elf, could have been attacked by something. Éowyn wished she had at least asked what had happened to the son of Elrond before Arwen and Derinsul had hurried off. But he was still alive. Was it something to do with Elves? 

Suddenly she got the sensation of, after tumbling helplessly along with the currents, finally gotten a grip on something, though she was not yet sure what. _Do not raise your hopes_, her heart warned. _It will only be more painful_.

What did Faramir and Aragorn have in common? One was the Steward, the other his King. If she followed on the line of thought concerning Elves, what if the blood of the Eldar- or possession thereof, to be precise- somehow affected the attack of this… menace? Full-blooded Elf, almost mortally wounded. Half-Elf, untouched but sunk in deep unconsciousness. Two lords of Gondor, taken, conditions unknown. 

Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. Backing up, she pondered on the idea of Elves. Her instincts told her that Elves had something to do with this.

Casting her eyes around the room, her expression like that of one trying to work out a particularly tricky puzzle, Éowyn's gaze eventually came to rest on the emblem of the White Tree and Seven Stars embroidered on the livery of the King's Guard. So focused was she on her mental pondering that it took her several minutes- with the aid of the wet towel dripping water onto her dress as it was clutched, forgotten, on her lap- to fully register what she was seeing. It was actually Elladan's uniform- Aragorn's foster brothers had insisted on being honorary Guards so that they could have something to do during their frequent stays in the City- but this was only a whispered fact at the back of her mind.

__

Tall ships and tall Kings  
Three times three...  
... Seven Stars and Seven Stones  
And one White Tree. 

The words seemed to flow out of her mouth. "And the first King of Númenor was Elros, called Tar-Minyataur, brother of Elrond of Imladris. From his house was descended Elendil, first High-King of Gondor and Arnor, and from Elendil came the Kings and Stewards of the North and South Kingdoms thereafter."

~*~

"You do not seem much surprised to see me."

Gimli blinked. "You have been in my dreams for three months." It wasn't an accusation, or even a question. Merely a statement.

__

He laughed, a great heart-warming sound that somehow carried with it the shimmer of underground gems and the singing of birds in great trees. "My sister saw this also, it seems," he said, shaking his golden head ruefully. "I never thought I would see the day a Naugrim would love one of the Eldar more than a heap of gold, or abandon his mine because of Elven dreams."

Gimli couldn't help smiling at that. "Yes, neither did I," he said softly. "Yet I am still a Dwarf. My treasures are simply different to that of the rest of my kin. But I am no less protective of them than a Dwarf-king would be of his." He sighed. "And as with treasure there seems to be a price to pay for my love of it, and methinks that this price is more perilous than my kin's lust of gold. The Eldar have given this Naugrim a special sight, for he can now see into the hearts and minds of others keener than even the lesser Men of Gondor. But the children of Aulë do not know what to make of such talents."

The Elf smiled kindly at him. For some reason Gimli was reminded of Elrond of Rivendell, who welcomed good people of all Races into his home. "A gift, perhaps? For 'tis a gift, Master Gimli, though one that would grow heavy by the years,"

"This I know already. But now my friend- the chief of my treasures, you might say- suffers, and I will not sit by and watch."

A hint of sadness entered the Elf's smile. "Yet there is little you can do. For this, he has to discover his own strength. Do not worry overmuch- he has faced something similar before, though this time his foe is older, more powerful, and he will have to defy both the Shadow and the Light 'ere the end of the ordeal." 

"'Tis a good thing that I have grown used the riddles of the Eldar, though I am still no better at understanding them. Is there nothing I can do, then? No words of guidance, or comfort?"

"There is _nothing_." The words were spoken sternly and with authority. This Elf was one used to giving commands, and expecting them to be obeyed. "Gimli son of Gloin, I strongly advise you to say nothing. Naught of me, nor the words I say. There is something that must happen." Grave eyes locked into his. "And here is another clue to the riddle: this event I speak of _has already occurred._" 

The first thing Gimli wanted to say was 'What do you mean?' Yet perhaps a part of him had already begun answering that question, or at least had gained some measure of Elven-wisdom, because what he said instead was, "This has already happened before… and _you_ were involved, weren't you? Perhaps…when you were still alive?"

The Elf looked very surprised at this. Sapphire eyes shone with an inner fire, as he seemed to regard Gimli in a very different light. "I deem that you deserve the title of Elf-friend more than many who have been granted it. You speak with the frankness of a Dwarf, yet your mind has become as subtle as an Elf's. Yes, to your question. And as I led events before, so must you guide them now. Listen carefully now, _elvellon_, for I shall tell you _my_ story."

~*~

Faramir stood. 

It took him a few moments to come to the realisation that he should not have been able to. But when he did, it had become a sort of low-priority thought, because by then he had noticed the mirrors.

That was his first assumption. Peering closely at the nearest one, however, he saw that it was not a proper mirror but a strange type of rock with one smooth and very, very shiny side. He was in a chamber full of them. Yet _another_ cave, a dry voice in his mind said. But most of him was caught up in a strange mixture of awe at the vast collection of 'mirrors' and an apprehensive unsettled feeling that made the hair at the back of his neck stand up on end.

He was about to give voice to his wonder when he noticed that one of the 'mirrors' did not reflect him, as it ought. 

Instead it reflected Legolas, standing fair and strong in his usual Lord of Ithilien garb. He was kneeling on the rocky floor, with his back mostly to Faramir, bent over a strange slab of rock. One hand seemed to be clutching a dagger.

As Faramir watched, fascinated, the beautiful Elf slowly straightened, and leant back slightly as if to examine his handiwork. As he did so, Faramir caught a glimpse of the dagger, and the slab of rock. 

The dagger was dripping with blood. And on the slab was a rough but unmistakeable image of the White Tree of Gondor. The bright crimson lines looked like fire on stone.

~*~

With an extreme sense of unease hanging over him and hours to go before his _éored_ was to depart for the search, the King of the Riddermark had advised his men to get a bit of much-needed sleep. After a half hour of brooding he had decided to take his own advice. Doubtless his sister, who had shown over the years that she had a very accurate internal clock, will wake him at midnight in time to leave. Unfortunately even Éomer's sleep was troubled.

The moment he entered the sleeping state that allowed for dreams, he proceeded to go through a sequence of snippets from the worst moments of his life. Learning of his father's death, and the éored not being able to retrieve his body. Only his sword, which was now Éomer's own. Watching his mother fade from grief. Théodred dying in his arms. The lifeless body of Théoden King, being borne into the White City in the midst of the War of the Ring. Éowyn, falling to her death into a deep chasm, and even then remained silent, to be strong for him.

__

Wait. That's wrong. That never happened.

He was on a horse. Muscles, from years of riding the open plains of Rohan, instinctively tightened his legs around the horse's flank as his hands grabbed the steed's mane. There was no saddle or bridle, but nearly every Rider of the Riddermark experienced bareback riding as part of his training.

The horse's coat was as black as coal, and glossy under the full sunlight. The equine muscles were firm, easily bearing Éomer across the rolling terrain at a speed he'd only witnessed in one of the _Mearas_. The horse was tireless, and seemed rather to fly over the ground than gallop. Éomer's Rohirric heritage could not help but be awed by such a majestic creature.

Then the Sun was in his eyes. Or was it the Sun? He heard the poundings of another set of hooves. There was someone riding beside him, only he couldn't see through the brightness…

"Not yet."

~*~

Merry awoke, and recoiled.

There was blood on his hands. He yelped, and quickly searched himself for the injury, but found none save a few scrapes on one elbow. Strange. Maybe it was someone else's blood? But, looking around, he saw that he was alone. 

__

Pippin. Elrohir. 

He frowned, trying to summon his most recent memories. It had been… night time. He had been standing near the fire, looking through their supplies for something to eat. Elrohir was seeing to the pony, who had gotten a pebble in its shoe and was complaining about it. Elrohir had been saying something about… it was a jest… something concerning his brother, anyway. Merry had chuckled. Pippin… he remembered seeing Pippin walk off into the wood, saying something about needing space to think. The poor chap had been acting oddly in the past few days, and Merry had decided to leave him alone, after warning him not to go too far. 

But something must have happened. He prodded his mind, willing it to produce something. A few more blurry images came up. Suddenly the moonlight had faded out, and a sudden wind nearly took the fire out. Merry remembered feeling as if he had had ice dunked on him. Then… Elrohir had a look of terror on his face… someone was screaming…

His head hurt. _I'll give this a rest now; plenty of time to dig up memories later._ It was clear that his cousin and the Elf were not with him, so perhaps the next step was finding out where _he_ was. 

Cave. A bit of green light from what looked to be an odd sort of moss. The cave was more like a passageway. Merry got up unsteadily, then saw that the food pack that he had been going through before… something… happened to them was on the ground next to him. He had a vague notion that he had been holding on to it before… before he was separated from his friends. Looking inside, he found that the food was still there. 

__

The strange things that happen to me.

"Now, I shall start walking," he said to himself, more for the comfort of hearing his own solid, albeit hoarse, voice. "And if I hit a dead end, I shall turn around and go the other way. I got here somehow, though I can't remember the _how_ yet, so there must be a way to get out again."

And so he walked, trusting to his hobbit-sense and occasionally talking to himself to keep away the occasional surge of claustrophobia. After about an hour or so, when his stomach began growling, he heard a voice far ahead.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Startled, he squinted into the darkness. A voice he knew _very_ well.

"_Strider_?"

~*~

__

Thank you very much to my beta-reader, Jen Littlebottom. All remaining mistakes are mine.

~

Summary so far…

For three months Gimli has been having strange dreams. In these dreams he hears messages, possibly warnings. Presumably one night he received a clear warning about the wellbeing of his friends over at Gondor. Dragging Éomer and some of his éored, they travel to Gondor where a determined Dwarf leads the Rohirrim to a clearing in the woods where a group of the King's Guards have been massacred. Aragorn and Faramir, who were with the Guards, are missing. Legolas was found on the brink of death. The Elf was taken quickly to the City. There, Arwen handles matters and decides that the disappearance of the King be kept secret for the present, to prevent panic.

Somewhere up north, Merry and Pippin come meet up with Elrohir, and they agree to travel together to Minas Tirith. One night near the Gap of Rohan, they set up camp. Merry wanders off and finds a strange pillar, and a stone disc. He accidentally breaks the disc…

…and Elladan wakes up in Minas Tirith, screaming. This was followed by Legolas. Note that I have not included details on the dreams. In this story, just as many things happen in dreams as they did in reality. In fact, what is the difference?

~

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Author's Notes:

Hello again! I won't try to excuse myself this time, and humbly hope that my wonderful readers and reviewers have not abandoned me for greener, or at least faster-growing pastures. It might gratify some of you to know that I actually re-wrote part of this chapter, after hearing my brilliant beta Jen Littlebottom's *hugs* comments on it. 

On the issue of canon, I am trying to stay as close to it as I can, though my sources are limited to UT, Silm, LOTR and Hobbit, so apologies if there is something in HoME that I should take into consideration. If it makes you feel better you can think about this as slightly-AU (or semi-canonical, depending which way you look at it).

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Reviewer Responses:

e- I think you're on to something there, my friend ;-) Certainly omens are abundant in a story driven by dreams. And rest assured, Elladan is having his revenge on me by being difficult to write. I tend to write two chapters ahead, which keeps me on top of things. Unfortunately, when I decide to change the plot a little, I have to go back and re-write a lot of things. I hadn't actually planned on killing Elrohir, but… it's something that had to happen, y'know? Thank you!!

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chris- take your time, at this rate you'll have time enough to do all that between updates ^_^ Thank you!

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Gwyn- *glomps* Thank you! Have been trying to get a regular update thing going, but those who have followed this story know how well that has gone *g* Hope to chat with you soon!

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Lirenel- sorry, hope you don't mind the summary being after the chapter? If it's still unclear, e-mail me and I might even try drawing a timeline ^_^ I'd ask that you bear with me though; it was my intention to have the reader just as confused and bewildered as the characters. To make matters worse, right now all the characters are at more or less the same timeframe, plus or minus a couple of hours, but later on it will not be so. Thank you for hanging in there!

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Littlefish- ai, I owe you a review! A major, major review! Lucky thing, being able to go away for the summer! I agree about Elladan and Elrohir, but to be completely honest I'm not sure myself what's going to happen to those two. And Elladan is exacting revenge on me by refusing to be written *pokes silly half-Elf* The Hobbits have returned, or at least Merry. Pippin will be along shortly, though you never know when plots decide to shift. Thank you very much for all your wonderful reviews, here and at AmonSul. You make my day!!

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Aria7- Don't worry, I'm completely incapable of reviewing regularly. *lol* I think you've summarised the general idea of the story: poor everybody! And I would love to reveal to you who the mystery Elves are, but not even my beta knows. Guess you'll have to stick around ;-)


	14. the taste of thunder

__

"… Indeed I have heard that for them memory is more like to the waking world than to a dream. Not so for Dwarves."

- Farewell to Lórien, Book II

**__**

… the taste of thunder

A clattering sound echoed down the stone hallway, empty and silent at the late pre-dawn hour save for the occasional servant or retiring Guard. Down the darkened passage ran the Lady of Ithilien, eyes lost in a myriad of thoughts. She was about to turn down a corridor heading towards the royal bedchambers, but hesitated.

"At times like this, she would favour the gardens," she said into the gloom, and went down another way. She had visited the White City frequently over the past six years, due to her husband's friendship and duty to King Elessar, and also for her own medicinal studies. During her stay Arwen was always her companion and mentor, a teacher and an ear for her worries. And though the daughter of Elrond seldom became distressed about anything, when she needed space and peace of mind she often retreated into her private gardens.

Éowyn sighed audibly in relief at spotting the familiar graceful shape half-illuminated by the Moon, standing lost amongst darkened leaves and pale blooms. Quietly, respectfully, she approached the distraught Queen, who didn't turn but made a barely perceptible nod to acknowledge the other's presence. Head bowed slightly, Éowyn came to stand beside Arwen.

"Gimli says that Elrohir is dead," said Arwen, so softly that if the night hadn't been so still Éowyn would have not have caught it. "Do you think they are alive, Éowyn?"

She did not have to ask who _they_ meant. Éowyn looked worriedly at Arwen. Tears stained the perfect skin of her cheeks, and looking into her eyes the Lady of Ithilien saw a weight of years no mortal could fully comprehend. "Are you well, my friend?" she asked, extremely concerned. "Why do you speak so?" A rather useless question, but she knew that Arwen needed to talk, needed to be pulled up before she could drown in her sorrows, and Éowyn needed time to digest this new bit of information.

Elrohir dead. _The King, the Steward, the Half-Elven twins, the Prince of Mirkwood…_

Those glorious eyes were hidden from view by dampened locks, as Arwen looked down. The common habit amongst men, indicating uncertainty, looked very out of place when employed by an Elf. "When Estel was a just a Ranger, he would disappear into the Wild for months at a time. At each departure, I did not know if I would ever see him again, but I never stopped hoping, even when he was away so long my brothers would go to search for him." That smooth, melodious voice was now constricted, as if some great need was literally forcing the words out of her thoughts. "Somehow I imagined that if he ever died, I would _know_. I would feel it, no matter where the other was. Though it would have shattered me, the certainty would have been a comfort. But now…"

For a while no more words were said, though Éowyn waited, sensing from the tone that Arwen intended to say more but lacked the strength to, as if the admission of her deepest fears had sapped all her strength. The Queen slowly, almost lethargically, made her way to a stone bench, and sat, shoulders slumped in a way Éowyn had thought no Elf would know how to. Shaken by Arwen's state, Éowyn joined her.

"He might have died, today, yesterday, and I never knew," Arwen finally whispered. "How can you stand this, lingering in doubt? And… time… I had not imagined how different it is to be mortal."

"Different?" asked Eowyn, curious yet at the same time desperate to keep her friend talking, keep her friend from concentrating on the despair that was ghosting the edges of her own thoughts. The pale image of her mother, wasting away in grief after her father's death, came to her mind. "What mean you by 'different'?"

Unfortunately it only seemed to deepen Arwen's distress, but the words came pouring out anyway. "It is the same, in essence, yet profoundly different. Before Estel I barely marked the passage of time, and only did so through the changes in the air and the slow aging of the trees. Methinks Elves dislike change because we- _they_- do not change well. In Rivendell, the feel of time was more akin to Man's concept of it, and one would be aware of the passing of each day, even if one was unaffected by it. When my mother departed, I retreated into Lothlorien, desiring no longer to feel change, yearning instead to lose myself in golden timelessness.

"But then I met Estel, and once I recognised my love for him, even the Golden Wood was no sanctuary. And when I chose the Doom of Men, in my heart, and bound myself to him, suddenly I was no longer a rock in the river of time but a flower being swept along on it, to some uncertain end."

Patiently Éowyn allowed her friend to talk, wondering herself what it must feel like to be one of the Firstborn. But then- perhaps it was due to something in Arwen's words, her tone, her expression- revelation dawned, and the words left her lips even as memory washed over her. "For the first time you feel like you do not have enough time. And then the purpose of your life is gone; you cannot even know for sure, much less do anything about it."

At this Arwen stilled, sensing even in her depression that Éowyn was talking from more than just a hypothetical situation. "Was this how you felt when…"

"Yes." It was a part of her life that she tried to forget. Those had been dark days for Rohan, under the influence of Grima, and even darker times for the niece of the King. She remembered the empty halls, the lonely corridors, the endless _waiting_. She knew Éomer hadn't meant to leave her alone so often, but he couldn't stand being around Wormtongue. And she had thought herself to be strong, strong enough to stand alone, to hope for herself and for Rohan that the King would somehow come to his senses. The ice that her husband had so eloquently described her encasing herself in had grown, layer by layer, each time she watched her beloved brother ride out. 

She wanted to say, to believe that the ice, the bitterness, the shieldmaiden, had been long extinguished, but she knew deep in her heart that it was not true. Deep inside, _that_ Éowyn lived still. It was Faramir, dearest Faramir, who realised finally that the best way to keep that part of her dormant was to give her the freedom to let it out.

How she loved that man, for loving her so unconditionally! The only man she had ever known to embrace fully not just the warmth, but the fire of her being. And because with him she could be whatever she wanted, shieldmaiden or wife, she had willingly turned her back to wrath and ruin. 

Losing him would destroy her. Already she could feel the fear worming through the crevices of her composure, weakening her moment after uncertain moment.

"Nay, I do not think they are dead," she eventually voiced, in her most reassuring tone. A lie, but a needed one. "Our husbands are the best of men-" at this they shared a sisterly smile, between women who had grown up in a household of males "- and they will return to us."

__

And in the meantime we'll sit here, worrying, never knowing, always fearing the worst, she thought bitterly. _As always._ Earlier, Éomer had grudgingly agreed to let her go with them, but that was when she had asked in front of others, and he had not wanted to undermine or embarrass her. Once he awoke he'd probably seek her out; even the old Éowyn had not been able to stand up to his heartfelt concern and pleas to her sense duty. 

Then the idea came to her, so strange, so wild, so dangerous that even the other Éowyn gaped. She would have dismissed it if it weren't for Arwen catching her sudden change of expression, and asked, with an unreadable face, "What is it?"

Éowyn, younger by centuries from her companion, couldn't help wondering if somewhere in that wise mind the idea had already occurred to Arwen_. But of course, the Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms would never get such ideas._ Later, if there would be a later, people would shake their heads and say 'No, it must have been that wife of Prince Faramir's. Unpredictable, those maidens of Rohan.' Maybe Arwen didn't mean for it to be that way, but that was how it would be seen. The ball, blood, blame would be on Éowyn's hands.

The temperature seemed to drop several notches. It was all she could do not to glare in suspicion at the other woman. _Convenient, isn't it?_ Perhaps she had been spending too much time in the court of Minas Tirith. The old, ice-Éowyn would not have even considered that level of deception to be possible. _But don't I know,_ she thought cynically,_ better than anyone how well Arwen understands the heart of men?_ But she could not believe that her friend would play her like that, as if she was but a pawn. No, something was not right.

Those beautiful eyes regarded her, red-rimmed from crying. But Éowyn had looked into those magnificent orbs many times in the past, had learned to read them, if only in a very basic sense. And she had seen enough eyes of newly-widowed Rohirrim to recognise what she was seeing. 

The grief was there, floating on the outside, like a dark cloud. Grief for all her brothers, and one who was also her husband. A part of it had been expressed through the tears, or relieved by their conversation. But the rest… the part that transcended into pain, the part that hurt most deeply, deeper than any words could reach, it had been transformed and mutated by fear. Into something dark, and dangerous. 

Éowyn repressed a shudder. She knew about the effect of grief on an Elf. Granted, Arwen was no longer, technically speaking, even a Half-Elf. But in a way, in her heart and soul, she was still one. Over six years, had she embraced the fate of Men enough to be shielded from the devastating effects of Elven grief? She had lived the life of the Firstborn for over two thousand years. Remembering her own mother, Éowyn wondered if there really was any protection. Yet it was more than grief and its effects. That would have been straight-forward, almost. No, Arwen suffered because of _doubt_. 

Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan. All the family Arwen had left in the world. And Éowyn knew that she was still not fully over her father's departure. Now the Lady of Ithilien fully appreciated the ambiguity of Arwen's words to her when she had first arrived at the royal gardens, and how the questions had hinted at this. By 'them' Éowyn had automatically assumed she referred to Aragorn and Faramir, but perhaps she had meant the twins as well. 

__

What torture it must be, said the thoughts swirling in the confused cocktail of her mind,_ to fear the death of all you hold dearest, yet be held on the cusp on uncertainty? To suspect, to fear, but never truly know that your loved ones are dead. Aragorn is out there, somewhere. Elrohir's death would explain Elladan's condition. But… what if, just what if, we don't presume cause and effect? _Now that she recognised it for what it was, Éowyn could practically feel the fear, the uncertainty radiating from Arwen._ She doesn't know. One of her brothers is probably dead, yet Gimli had been the one to tell her._

__

Let's assume that Elrohir is not yet dead, and whatever is happening here has struck down Elladan in some way. Gimli could have been mistaken. But where does that leave us? Another realisation._ Am I just finding excuses for them to be alive?_

__

Yes, said the shieldmaiden. _You cling to hope because if you admit the death of one, you admit that all the others may be dead. Including Faramir. You are floundering in the sea of doubt yourself. You cannot rest, can barely eat and drink, for worry over one man who means the world to you. Arwen fears for three._

__

Ai, it would have driven me mad.

She gazed into Arwen's eyes, and felt a tinge of fear at what the nearly imperceptible fire in those chaotic depths meant.

She knew she would say it. Knew because she sympathised and feared for her friend, feared the gleam in those once-serene eyes. Because her own sanity needed something to cling to. Let the blood be on her hands. Let the blame for whatever fate befell lie at her feet. She had sat and thought for too long; the shieldmaiden inside screamed for some _action_. For Faramir, for Arwen, for Gondor. 

She surrendered, to fate and history. For Faramir. "We can go ourselves. Slip out into the night before anyone notices. Search for them." Insanity, and vain hope, but there were no answers to be found here. It was no longer a matter of 'Is this the right thing to do?" but more of 'Can I forgive myself if I did not try?'. 

Arwen was nodding before she had even finished; eager, oh so eager. "That is dangerous," she said, though her voice hinted that there was nothing bad about it being so. Had Arwen hesitated for at least a moment longer after saying that, like she was giving the idea proper consideration, Éowyn would have been able to convince herself that what she had seen in those eyes wasn't real. But she didn't, and Éowyn felt something cold tingle down her spine. "We will go."

It was unnerving that Éowyn was the one to say, "But who will be left to take care of the City?"

~*~

__

Elladan wandered the barren wastelands of desolate hope. Had he walked there in flesh, his feet would have been burnt by the baked earth, his drooping head scorched by the unrelenting heat. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. There was only an endless plateau, stretching out from horizon to featureless horizon. 

There had been no sound in the emptiness before, but now his clear voice rang through the uncaring air. Elrohir had been a better singer, and it was for this reason that he sang, hoping to draw his brother back to at least grimace at his screechings.

But there was nothing.

Elrohir was gone.

But his bereaved mind could not accept this. He had paced across the path of their shared dreams, his sole footsteps and lone shadow seeming wrong, out of place. In thought he had scoured all of Middle-Earth, from the deepest pits to the highest mountain, and did not encounter his brother's thought. And in his grief, in this state where his body was but a forgotten shadow, he reached back, into the twilight, drawing on a power akin to that used by his foremother, Luthien the Fairest. Though in these latter days and in his much distilled blood, the potency was a bare shadow of the strength that had touched even the heart of Namo the Judge, Elladan began to truly_ sing._

The eldest son of Thranduil and His Highness the Heir of Mirkwood was trudging through a myriad of confused emotions as he sat beside Elladan's bed, after he replaced the fair-haired woman who he vaguely knew as the Lady of Ithilien. He had needed the space to think, and concluded that he might as well be useful and watch over Elladan as he did so. It was hard to believe that the night had barely passed, Ithil only about half-way through his journey across the sky. He could distinctly feel the weight of several Ages resting upon his slender shoulders.

__

"All is quiet.

Elladan lay unmoving upon the mattress, his fair face pale and expressionless. Derinsul had been gazing at it for some time, and as minute after heavy minute passed a veil seemed to thin, gradually revealing a beauty to the Peredhel he had never seen before. There was strength there, the light of the Elves, but enhanced rather than hindered by a most un-Elven spirit. This spirit burned with a searing passion, resembling more a Man's innate desire to stubbornly cling to life rather than an Elf's more passive acceptance of the way things were. It occurred to Derinsul that this fire was perhaps all that was keeping the son of Elrond from the Halls of Mandos, when another Elf would have fully succumbed upon the first shock of the twin-bond being cut. But Elladan could never be mistaken for a Man; though of a generation past the Doom of Mandos, yet even in his unconscious state there was a sense of unending sadness from his Noldorin heritage, and beneath that Derinsul could sense the majesty and strength of a fruit of the Calaquendi.

__

As still as stone.

His mind went over what Gimli had told Arwen and himself earlier. Derinsul had met Elrond's younger son, Elrohir, several times before during various errands for their respective fathers. In fact, recalling all his memories of the two, this was the first time he had seen one without the other. Legolas, who had known the twins better, had mentioned once that they were nearly impossible to separate. Yet upon arriving at Minas Tirith he had learned that only Elladan was there. This he had attributed to the call of duty; with the departure of their father, the lordship of Imladris had passed onto the twins, and thus they could no longer wander freely through Middle-Earth as they had done before. Elrohir, he had learned, had stayed at Imladris whilst Elladan visited their sister. 

__

Never before.

Not having seen his own brother for a long time, Derinsul could feel a small measure of empathy with the twins. _Only a small one_, he told himself. It felt foolish, in the face of the catastrophe that had befallen them all, but he still had not forgiven the half-Elf for presuming to withhold him from Legolas. Yet this feeling was slowly but surely ebbing away. Now that he was calmer, he acknowledged that he wouldn't have reacted well at seeing his youngest sibling injured to the brink of death, and he knew that Legolas much-preferred the company of the Dwarf (something that still hurt him a little to think about). 

__

Have I stood alone.

Derinsul sighed. The happenings of the past few days were a great mystery, and surely not just to him. Something serious was afoot, yet even the children of Master Elrond, wisest of lore-masters, did not seem to know what was going on. In fact, though he would never willingly admit this to anyone, the only one who seemed to have any clue was the Dwarf!

__

Red sun rises

Now _there_ was a dilemma. Derinsul was barely amiable with the stunted creature, but he was a soldier as well as the son of a King, and knew when one's own grudges often had to be buried for the sake of greater matters. Having already lost their closeness, Derinsul wished to at least remain on speaking terms with his brother. And, though he was yet to speak with Legolas about this, he had changed significantly over the years Legolas left Mirkwood. The many desperate battles against the forces of Sauron during the War of the Ring had made him reconsider his prejudice against mortals. He had even attended the funerals of Dáin and Brand, after the War, when his father was occupied with matters at home. Hopefully Legolas would approve of the fact that he was at least _trying_.

__

A reluctant dawn.

Smiling wistfully, the son of Thranduil remembered the times when Legolas had been but an Elfling. Of all their siblings he had been closest to Derinsul, and Derinsul in turn had been overly protective of him. _Admittedly, far too protective_. In the end, he could claim being completely blameless of Legolas leaving home. In a way, he had left home long before, when he had first met a certain Man that often went by the name of Strider.

__

That I shall not meet.

Elladan was fading. Derinsul could feel it in his heart, in his blood. He had seen it several times before, in the family of warriors who had been struck down by the Shadow. And not all warriors died from physical battle wounds. He wasn't sure if Gimli was aware of this. Perhaps not, though the dwarf- in Derinsul's opinion- certainly knew a great deal more about Elves than his whole Race put together. With each second he knew that Elladan's hold on the world, his fea's hold on the hruin, was weakening. 

Derinsul had never wished for the sunrise more. 

__

For my soul has gone."

~*~

Éomer's eyes snapped open with a start. A quick glance to the window and the direction of the moonlight told him that it was approximately several hours before dawn. He would have to depart with the _éored_ soon. He still thought that the postponement of the start of the search was not a very good idea, costing them precious time, Arwen had been worried about the King's Advisors asking questions about a considerable number of men suddenly riding out in the dead of night, and had convinced him to wait until after midnight.

Wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve, Éomer realised that he was shivering slightly, and not from cold. Unfortunately he could still remember the… nightmare… too well 

He frowned. Could it be really called a nightmare? He had not really experienced anything painful or terrifying, yet se had received a great deal of grief and sorrow from… that person on the horse. Now that he was awake he realised how strange and unbelievable it sounded, putting the blame on a non-existent character from his dream. 

Perhaps I am receiving the dreams that Gimli has been getting. The thought only worried him further, because it meant that the dream foretold something, probably something unpleasant. He hoped that the image of Éowyn plunging into deep darkness was only a message hidden in subtext, and not an actual event. This was likely, as in his experience one never got what one actually saw in dreams.

But, knowing his sister only too well, he did not want to take any chances.

On his way down to the kitchens to grab something to eat before departing, he encountered Éowyn. A lifetime of experience immediately set off alarm bells in his head at the expression on his sister's face, but unexpectedly the anger did not seem to be directed at him. In fact, when she saw him she forced a smile.

"Is ought wrong, sister?" he asked, deciding that if he was going to give her a lecture about her duty than it was best to start off on a good note. But she only puzzled him further, as she shook her head with a resigned sigh. Perhaps six years of living apart had made him completely out of touch with his only sibling's moods.

He might as well be honest. "Éowyn, I know you are not going to be pleased to hear me say this, especially as I said earlier that you could,-"

"- but you do not want me to go with you," she finished for him. It wasn't her accurate prediction of his words that bothered him, for truthfully he had said them far more times than any man in Rohan had probably ever had to, but rather it was the unreadable look in her eyes when she gazed at him. She has been spending too much time in Gondor; _that's a look I've seen on Faramir's face before._

"Éowyn?" he asked, uncertain.

"It is nothing, brother." To his surprise she enveloped him in a tight embrace. "Go. I fear that there is as much danger within the Walls as without."

"What mean you by that?" he asked, worried, but she did not seem to hear him. Instead she said, "Find my Lord and the King with all due speed- Lord Elladan has succumbed to some Elvish malady, and I fear only the Elessar has a chance of bringing him back."

A quick kiss to his cheek, a whispered word of fortune and speed in their native tongue, and she was gone.

~*~

Author's Notes:

Hopefully I haven't upset anyone in my portrayal of Arwen in this chapter. I'm exploring the idea of how grief affects Elves and how being in a sort of 'transition' between Elves and Men could put more stress on her already burdened mind. There was a discussion in the Advanced Lore forum of the LOTR Plaza on how Elves and Men sense the passage of time differently, and I'm including some of the ideas in here. 

_*beats self repeatedly over the head*_ I've given up on being any kind of organised writer. Those of you who even remember this story, my sincerest thanks- you don't know how annoyed I am at myself for never having the time to write. So instead of making promises I'll probably not keep, I'll just say a great big THANK YOU to all who're still reading, and I hope everyone enjoys ROTK!

Reviewer Responses

iynkang- Thank you very much, and I'm sorry about the huge time gap between updates. Sometimes I just don't have time to write, other times I agonise for days over a chapter before deciding to post it.

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Littlefish- *blushes* Yes, I do read Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time. I didn't actually base the 'dream' concept on Eye of the World, but there's a hint of _Tel'aran'rhiod_ (World of Dreams) in how I am going to use the dreams. I'm a bit of a romantic too, but I need a truck-load of angst before fully appreciating a happy ending. Hearing such compliments from you is truly ego-boosting, thank you sooo much! *hops off to give Elladan some ice-cream*

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Elvenesse- yay, you're like me too! To be honest, I didn't actually intend for this to be such a mystery story, and I think the Genre is still under 'Action/ Adventure' *g* Still, call me a sadist, but it's so much fun leading you guys around now and seeing if anyone will guess *evil cackle* Anyway, I'll try my best to not disappoint you guys.

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Thundera Tiger- *hugs* There is nothing wrong with lurking (especially as I'm even more guilty of it concerning your fics *apologetic grin*) You actually touched on something that will come up later. I'm relieved you like Éowyn, and hopefully you still like her after this chapter, because I'm sort of experimenting with her and Arwen's character. And yes, I was actually thinking "Stay away from the light!" when I wrote the Éomer section. And a big THANK YOU for pointing out that error in my summary. Yes, it was Pippin, but for some reason I wrote Merry in the summary. Will change it once I get the chance *cringes at how long it would probably take*

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chris- another loyal reader! You don't know how grateful I am that you're still interested in this, especially because it takes me so long to update. Thank you very much.

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Tintalle1- Your review spurred on this update! Thank you!

**ziggy-** Thank you, it really cheers my up to see people desparate to read more. After so long without writing, I hope I will not disappoint.

**Daylight-** Thank you, will try my best!


	15. Come and gone

I'm still alive! A big thank-you must go to **Thundera Tiger**, who made the crucial poke in getting me back on the story (I was still working on another Estel-Elrond fic). Had to re-read the beginning and the last few chapters, which goes to show how long I've been away from this story. Fortunately I have a habit of keeping notebooks on my writing, so I have all my notes to refer to. Plus, I never completely forgot the essence of this tale. Anyways, I've decided to go ahead and put this fic as **AU**, as I cannot possibly claim it to be completely canon. And yay for 100 reviews (**wellduh** being the hundredth)! Hope y'all enjoy!

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"I also will come," said Legolas. "For I do not fear the Dead."  
- The Passing of the Grey Company, Book V of the Red Book

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Come and gone…

"Ada!"

He was in his old room, in Rivendell. It had a double bed and a connecting door to their parents' bedrooms. There was a large window to let in sunlight, a bookshelf on the corner with little chairs carved by their own Ada, a trunk filled with toys in the other corner on top of the carpet made by their Nana. It was how he remembered that room best, but with one terrifying difference- there was no Elrohir.

"Ada!" Ada always came when he was hurt. Nana came too, but she must be away visiting the Lady Galadriel. She always did that, when she missed the Golden Wood. "Ada!!'

Why are you crying, my Elladan?

"I've lost Elrohir!"

Lost? How can you lose him?

Where was his Ada? The voice was there, but the room was empty except for him.

"I wasn't looking. I wasn't watching him, like I promised you I always would! Help me find him, Ada."

Elladan, you are not a babe any more. You have to let me go.

That hurt. Why was his Ada hurting him?

I think your brother just wanted to play somewhere else. But, dear one, you must wake up now. Remember Arwen? Remember Estel? They need you awake, Elladan.

"But what about Elrohir? I cannot be without him!"

Some things are beyond even my control, ion-nin. But this I can still do…

Warm, familiar hands wrapped around him. He laughed out loud, because he had missed those hands, had missed the knowledge that as long as he was in those hands, everything would be all right again. He caught a glimpse of a face, half-vision and half-memory, laughing with him as he was borne, up and up, strong hands supporting him, never letting him fall_. Remember this, little one?_ He was dipped down; he knew what was coming next, because Ada always did it to make him laugh. And laugh he did, and his Ada laughed even harder. A gust of air, and he was up, up, up. The hands let go of him, but that was all right, because he was flying! He was soaring over the clouds, free as an Eagle. Any moment now the hands will catch him again…

Let us go, Elladan. Let us go.

But he was alone.

Her hands shook as she fastened the pin that held her cloak together at the neck. She could feel the impatience, the fear, the excitement radiating like heat from the graceful figure next to her.

Had Éowyn looked at her companion at that moment, she would have see a momentary flicker of doubt, a brief surfacing of the Queen, realising fully what she was about to do. She would have seen the hesitation, the look of horror. Had she been paying attention, Éowyn would have witnessed Arwen, daughter of Elrond, finally surrender to her heart and abandon the wisdom of centuries. Perhaps it would have been a comfort to Arwen then to know that it was yet another step towards her chosen fate.

But the Lady of Ithilien was adrift in her own mind. She knew that with every movement towards departure, she was surrendering to the shieldmaiden inside, abandoning the composed, thoughtful product of the last six years. But she was powerless, the years of suppressing her own anxieties out of love for the men in her life culminating in the sweeping away of all rational thought. At that moment, in the darkness of the night, all that mattered was her Faramir, and her need to be with him. Even in death, she would be with him. The re-awoken fire in her being could accept nothing less.

"Are you ready to go, Arwen?" she asked, her voice sounding incredibly loud to her own ears. If the daughter of Elrond noticed the absence of titles in Éowyn's address, she did not acknowledge it. _We go now,_ said Éowyn's mind, _against our laws and all wise counsel_.

But did not Mithrandir advise her, that first time she saw him at the great hall of Meduseld, "You are as free as one of the _Mearas_, shieldmaiden of the Mark. And see, how none dare take bridle and saddle to one of that kin against its will." Those words had echoed through her mind when she had gone against her uncle's orders during the War, and now they propelled her blood and hardened her will.

Deep in their own thoughts, the two women bridled and mounted their horses mechanically, speaking little. They moved quickly, for at any moment a Guard or stableboy might come upon them and bar their departure. Éowyn was surprised that none came, in fact, for to her knowledge there were always people on duty at the stables. Then, with nothing more than an acknowledging nod towards each other, two shadows passed through the streets of Gondor and out into the unknown darkness.

Éomer managed to swallow his third slice of toast before suddenly standing up. The harsh scraping of his chair against the floor made all the men of his _éored_ look up at him, but he ignored them and stormed out of the mess hall, his dark expression mirroring the suspicion growing in his mind. Swift feet brought him out of the Citadel and down to the stables in the sixth circle.

As he passed through the main entrance he already knew his suspicions were true. For some reason there was not a soul in the stables. it was the perfect time for… He froze outside the empty stables. A sardonic part of his brain commented that, in all the confusion and mystery of the past two days, at least his sister was consistent

He frowned, examining the thought. Though the suspicion had been forming in his mind ever since he encountered his sister in the hallway, he still found himself unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what Éowyn had done. It was an annoyance when they were young, nearly an act of treason during the War, but this…

It was easier to think of his sister, however, than even begin to consider Arwen_. Gondor now stands without a King and Queen,_ he whispered in his mind. _What foolishness is this, Éowyn? What have you done?_

It was so characteristically a deed of Éowyn, yet Éomer couldn't bring himself to believe that his sister had convinced the Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms to abandon the City on some desperate, foolish fancy. He would not have believed it of Éowyn even when she was at her most stubborn (her most 'man-ish', as Théodred had onced teased), and he certainly would not have believed it of the wife of Faramir. He had seen the change that her marriage to Faramir had made on his sister. She was no less spirited, no less stubborn (he would have thought less of Faramir if she had become so); no, she had simply matured, had learned to wield her own stubbornness and guile like a master swordsman would a second blade. He imagined that she was even more dangerous now, and able in both the field and the court. Plus, no force in the world could have forced Arwen to do something she did not want to.

Yet it was just as unlikely that the Gondorian Queen had proposed the deed. Well, in this case he wasn't as certain, not knowing the daughter of Elrond as well as he did his sister, but such a noble and wise lady should have known better…

Nothing makes sense anymore; there is no longer any certainty in anything.

Had some external part convinced them to ride out? Their goal was not very difficult to determine, and was nonetheless the same as his: to search for the missing King and Steward_. Alas that the King and the Steward had to have wives as strong-spirited as they are_, he thought to himself with a mixture of irritation and affection.

But what were they to do? The Advisors would surely demand answers he did not know how to give. And could he still ride out with his _éored_, with the City leaderless and perhaps facing an unknown peril in the dark? But what could he do? Would anyone here follow the King of Rohan? Instead of returning to his men, Éomer turned towards the stairs and headed for the bedrooms. Earlier Éowyn had told him that Elladan had succumbed to some "Elvish malady".

He saw that a serving-woman was delivering a basin and towels to a room ahead, and caught a glimpse of an Elven face. Legolas' brother, Derinsul.

"My Lord Derinsul!" he called to the Elf. "Know you which rooms are Lord Elladan's?"

Derinsul nodded, and opened the door wider. "Aye, this is it. Come in."

Surprised at the warmth that was Derinsul's tone- the Elf had so far been cool and distant with Éomer- the King of Rohan entered. He inhaled sharply when he saw the pale figure on the bed. "By Eorl, what has happened to him?"

Derinsul went to sit on the chair next to the bed, setting the basin of water on the floor and the towels on the side table. With uncharacteristic gentleness the Crown Prince of Mirkwood wet one towel and placed it on Elladan's brow. "The Master Dwarf told us that Lord Elladan felt the death of his twin. I do not know how he knew, and he would say no more, but I feel that he is correct." Eyes disconcertingly like Legolas' gazed at Éomer, who stubbornly resisted the urge to look away. "Lord Elladan is dying, King Éomer. I can feel his _féa_ fading, weakening. He is in what Men would call a coma, though it is slightly different for Elves. His body is in turmoil; his temperature suddenly rose a few minutes ago, and sometimes a minor muscle would spasm. Were you looking for him to learn of his condition?"

Éomer sighed. "That also, but mainly it is because I fear I have little better tidings. It is fortunate that I found you, Lord Derinsul, seeing as Lord Elladan will not be able to help me."

"What is it?" asked Derinsul. "Tell me, and I will do my best, though it worries me that we can have so many dark tidings in one night."

Still getting used to the Elf's new character, Éomer told Derinsul of Éowyn and Arwen's departure, including the encounter in the hallway and his speculations on what made them leave the City at a time when the people of Gondor needed to see a strong leader. By the end Derinsul was frowning. "And the people of Minas Tirith have not even been told of their King's disappearance," he said. "News of the absence of both the King and Queen in the Citadel could send the City into chaos, and give boldness to Gondor's enemies."

"The secret can be kept from the City," Éomer said. "But not from the Citadel. The servants and Guards here are loyal to the King, or in his absence, the Steward. "

"But both the Steward and his wife are also missing. Who is next?"

"I believe that the written procedure is for the Advisors to elect a leader amongst themselves."

Derinsul frowned even as he wiped Elladan's arms with another towel. "What about in times of war? Who would be next if the King and Steward were to fall in the battlefield, and there is no time for an Advisors' council?"

Éomer blinked. "The highest-ranking Captain amongst the Guard and the various Companies, I suppose. As I've always dealt directly with King Elessar, I never had occasion to learn the names of the Captains. I know that Beregond is the Captain of the White Company in Ithilien, but I doubt he'll be willing to leave Emyn Arnen unless Faramir and Éowyn told him to. That man obeys every command to the letter, though I daresay he has reason enough."

"I have heard the story, and I know he is thought of highly in Gondor. But his loyalty hinders our purposes now." Derinsul replaced the dry towel with a new wet one. "If we can produce a temporary leader who is trusted and respected in the City, the Advisors can be convinced to remain silent for a time, for the good of Minas Tirith. I have seen them enough to know that they want a peaceful City as much as we do."

Éomer thought about this, and nodded. "It will buy us time, at least, to search for Aragorn and Faramir, not to mention Queen Arwen and my sister." He moved to leave the room. "Time is short; I might have to let one of my captains lead the _éored_ if they are to depart before dawn, though I have more reason than ever to go myself, with my sister out there also. I will go and ask around for our leader."

He stopped at the door, his back turned to Derinsul. The Elf had not responded to his words, and when he slowly turned around, he saw why.

Dark, storm-grey eyes regarded him. The voice that spoke was hoarse, but clear and strong.

"The people will trust the brother of the King and Queen." Lethargically but with determination, Elladan pushed himself up to a sitting position. The half-Elf ignored for the moment the gaping Derinsul beside him, and did the Gondorian military salute, bowing his head with a clenched fist to his breast. "The people will trust the Captain of the Guard of this Citadel."

Am I awake?

He came into what he hoped was awareness with a strange sensation. His throat hurt, there was a ringing in his ears, and his skin felt sticky.

For a moment he remembered the glass shards, glittering like tiny stars as they pierced through his skin. Fear stabbed through him; what if he was covered in blood? If he looked down, would he see himself covered in blood? Would he discover that he was dying, bleeding to death out of a thousand little cuts with little stars embedded in them, penetrating his internal organs. _Perhaps they are so deep that they are bleeding out my very soul._

"Ai, he has been touched!" He was hearing voices! Voices of the dead! He knew that this unfamiliar voice came from the dead, sure as he knew that he was dying.

Dying? Legolas frowned. Surely such a notion should illicit some sort of emotional response? But he felt… nothing. He almost smiled. He… remembered…. being so afraid of death, so unwilling to die.

"Legolas?" Another voice, but this one did not come from the dead. Relief. "His eyes are moving; he is awake. Why does he not respond?"

With great difficulty, Legolas managed to turn his head towards the direction of the voice. It was like moving a block of stone. Through a red mist he saw a vague shape. Was it a person? The shape looked very familiar, yet its identity evaded his mind.

"It is no wonder, for the poison of the ancient Shadow is in his veins; moreover, he has been touched by… by the one whom I told you of." There it was again, the voice of the dead! Had the dead come among the living whilst he slept?

The shape leaned in, and deep brown eyes met Legolas'. He blinked. He knew those eyes… he had likened them to caves, once. Yes. The figure started to move away, but Legolas lifted a hand and touched him on the shoulder, stopping him. He was safe with this person; this knowledge resonated in his very bones. As long as he could see those eyes, he was safe.

"Legolas?" The figure spoke to him. "Legolas, do you know who I am?"

He nodded once. More movement required strength his body did not have. He sensed that the figure wanted something from him, wanted him to say something. He opened his mouth- and no sound came out. He blinked. He inhaled deeply, and tried again. This time he barely heard a rasping squeak through the ringing in his ears. Fearful that the figure would go away if he did not say something, Legolas took as deep a breath as he could, and said the first things he could think of saying.

"I am dead," he forced out. His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but the effort left his heart pounding and his mouth dry. Yet the words he had uttered hung in the air, and he realised the truth of them. He was dead. He remembered dying, once, and then again. He remembered claws tearing into him, numbing cold lancing through his body, the flash of light as his fea was separated from his body. But he had also remembered dying before; in the dark, jaws with burning saliva closing around his throat. Was it possible? _How can one die twice?_

"What is he talking about?" the figure demanded, but not of him. The eyes moved away, and Legolas let out a whimper.

"He needs you close, Gimli Elf-friend. He recognises you, though he may not remember your name." Gimli. Yes, that was the name. Legolas was puzzled. Did Gimli not know he was speaking to a voice of the dead? Or was his friend dead as well? Maybe we died together. The thought made him smile; he wouldn't be alone, then.

But no, he could see the eyes again, and they were alive. Legolas realised that without the veil of life his senses picked up a lot of things he had never noticed before. His eyes saw the fire of the Dwarf's soul, like living gold; his nose detected warm earth and cool caverns; his ears heard the echo of Aul's hammer in the Dwarf's heartbeat. He wondered what his own eyes looked like.

"What is wrong with him?" Gimli whispered.

For several heartbeats there was no response. "If you did not believe the tale I told you, Master Dwarf, then you can see a part of it now." A pause. Legolas wondered if they were talking about him. "So much has been forgotten from those earlier days. The horrors, the wonders; the victories, the failures. Most now know only of words on a page, for those few who still remember strive to forget. Yes, there were wonders then, the secrets of which have been lost through the centuries. Those were the days of the mighty lords of legend, the likes of whom will never be seen on this world again! But the darkness in those days was much greater also. The nights were darker, the Shadow so much stronger. Monsters prowled the dark woods, unseen creatures haunted places unprotected by the light of the Eldar. Morgoth took delight in creating new monstrosities, so we never knew what was going to leap out of the darkness. Whilst I mourn the loss of the splendors of our springtime, if that was the price to pay for the defeat of the Shadow and the destruction of those nightmares, it was a bargain well-made.

"Yet through some dark art of Sauron a few of those foul creatures from his master's breeding pools have survived. Look at your friend- he bears symptoms I have seen many times before. Profuse sweating from a full-blooded Elf? His muscles are extremely tense- I don't think he has full control over them. But most telling of all- which you must have noticed though you may not have wanted to admit it- the light of madness is in his eyes."

"Madness?" Legolas felt a rough, callused hand grasp his own.

"If it is any comfort, the real person is still in there, looking out. But the poison is destroying his body, confusing his thoughts, bewitching his senses."

"Is there a cure?" The hand was trembling now. Not sure why, but sensing that Gimli was in some sort of pain, Legolas concentrated and managed to return some semblance of a grip.

"A cure?" Legolas shivered. Gimli should not be talking to one of the dead. Why won't the dead leave the living be? But… he was dead. He was dead yet he clutched on to Gimli's warm, blood-filled hands like a newborn babe to its mother. "If it was only the poison, perhaps, but…"

Gimli's eyes left him, but the Dwarf's grip remained tight on his hand. "You said he has been touched by one of the Elves you told me about in your tale. Earlier, when he awoke for the first time after we rescued him, Elladan said a curious thing. I had fallen asleep next to Legolas and we shared a strange dream. Whilst we slept Elladan and Derinsul discovered, using their elven healing abilities, that our minds and souls departed from our bodies."

"Ah, worry not overmuch about that, Master Gimli. You are not the only ones to have had such a thing occur over the last week. I have told you about the Mirrors. The barrier to the Mirrors has been weakening ever since the fall of Barad-dur; The Mirrors themselves were created by Morgoth alone, yet with his fall and the loss of his dark realm the Mirrors were unstable. Thinking he could somehow use it for his own perverse purposes, Sauron salvaged the Mirrors and placed them deep beneath Mordor. Yet he lacked the power to control something not entirely of his own making, and in the end he placed a barrier of power around it to prevent the… things… within it escaping.

"The weakening of the barriers means that some of the… creatures… inside have begun to escape. That is why a creature out of the First Age managed to attack your friend. But as Sauron realised that he did not know enough about the Mirrors to use it or destroy it, he made a barrier that went both ways: it stopped… things… from coming out and coming in. The very nature of the Mirrors, Gimli, is to draw the _fëa_ to it. Some Elves believe that your _fëa_ is the least connected with your body during the dream state of sleep."

The eyes returned to him. "So, when we have those dreams, we are actually in the Mirrors?"

"Yes, in a sense. Be mindful of its name, Gimli. The soul does not see the way the eyes do. That you saw a place that really exists inside those enormous caverns suggests that the Mirrors exist in two worlds: the realms of the Seen and Unseen. The two may be the same, mere parallels of each other, yet does your reflection in the mirror have the same senses you do?"

"All this seems to be just a lot of mind-tricks!"

"Mind-tricks, truly. But 'just'? Do not underestimate the power of the mind and soul, Gimli son of Gloin. And to return to our original concern… Legolas has indeed been marked by the… the fallen one. The betrayer. The horror is still in your friend's eyes, if you knew where to look. It is curious that the… the abomination had chosen to approach your friend. Why him, and not the older brother? Or she with the light of the Evenstar upon her face?"

"What would this Elf want with Legolas?"

"I do not know, though I have some suspicions."

"Will you speak of them?"

"Nay, not until I am more sure. But be wary, Gimli, and do not let Legolas drift back into a dreaming sleep. I fear what prolonged contact with that betrayer would do to him."

A gust of hot air hit Legolas' face as Gimli exhaled in frustration. "You have explained many things to me, my Lord, yet I am more confused than I was at the beginning!"

The dead one gave a merry laugh. The sound of it irritated Legolas. What right did the dead have to be joyful? "That is the path to wisdom, or so the Elves believe. By listening and considering to all that I have said, you show a greater patience than most mortals have for the more obscure branches of old lore. And you will understand it all, 'ere the end." The voice became sad. "Then you will see why understanding is not such a great thing after all."

* * *

Author's Notes:

Taking quite a bit of risk here, with a lot of things, and I hope I haven't lost anyone. I did quite a lot of reading for this scene, yet knowing me I'd probably missed the crucial information. If anyone has any major objections to the events in this scene, please tell me. I try my best, but I always tend towards the overdramatic.

Reviewers' Response:

wellduh- Thank you, I've gotten very fond of Éowyn whilst writing this fic, and I hope to develop her character further. The confusion is part of the experience winks And I'm actually looking forward to bringing all these plotlines together, because right now I'm getting a headache keeping track of all of them! And thanks for the 100th review! huggles

e- pokes is this better? I understand, I'm a terribly bad updater. I do try, but I write slow, and beta-read even slower. Thanks for still being here!

Carrie S- Thank you very much! And don't worry, the next few chapters should be focused on Aragorn and Faramir now that I've sorted out some things in Minas Tirith. (Note that the story is moving their direction winks)

Enigma Jade- Thank you! It always encourages me to see new readers!

Lisette- As you can see, I'm going to be quite mean to Legolas through this fic, so stay tuned! PTD is actually a great favourite of mine, and Maggie is an inspiration, so at some points I have to step back and see if anything resembles that wonderful piece of fiction too much. I've added your request to see more Aragorn/Faramir with all the others (see above :-P ), they should appear in the next one. Thank you so much for your kind words!

rynkang- Thank you! See, this is somewhat speedier than before, so you guys obviously have an affect grins

**Lirenel-** That's good! Hope you're still reading!

**Cosmic Castaway-** I love unpredictability also. Thanks for your enthusiasim, despite the pain-threat, and I probably deserve some severe poking with that finger of yours for taking so long.hugs

**ziggy-** The characters of Arwen and Eowyn seem to have a life of their own! This portrayal of them was certainly not what I had in mind at the start of the story, but I guess writing unpredictable fanfic means that the author does not have much more of a clue as to what happens next as you readers. Thanks, and hope you're still reading!

**Silver Wolf-** Very interesting theory you have there gleam in eye Unfortunately you'll have to wait to see if it's correct. LOL at the line. I've come to refer to the Silmarillion a lot in this, though it is by no means an easy read (took me three months the first time round). You do need to have to have read it to guess, I think. But one enver knows; I drop clues all the time, though perhaps it's only after the mystery elf is revealed that you'll see it. Thank you!

**Calanare Sairavanie-** Thanks, I have to admit that I never intended on exploring the subject until I began writing the garden scene. Then it sort of moulded itself like a luminescent green plot-bunny. blushes I hope you're right, though I can completely understand it if people forget this story, considering how long I've taken.

**littlefish-** Did you know that Mandos is actually going to do a cameo in this? Sorry, had to mention it. blush I'll try my best with the elvies, though I can't promise anything wink Still in the middle of RJ's "Winter's Heart"; have been somewhat engrossed with school in the past few months. Thanks very much, o writer extraordinaire! glomps

**unplugged32-** Chris! An even greater sorry from me for taking so long to update. Thanks for your kind words, you have certainly been a loyal reader for a while. Hopefully you're still here!

**Cloud-123-** I love him too, and to be honest I'm not sure how he'll end up. But I can assure you that there will be considerable angst 'ere the end.


	16. is deed undone

"'At his command they fell back. "Even the shades of men are obedient to his will," I thought. "They may serve his needs yet!"  
- Legolas, The Last Debate, Book V of the Red Book

****

… is deed undone

"_Strider_?" Soft footsteps, too quiet for boots. "Is that you?"

Aragorn Elessar wondered if he was finally going mad. Perhaps all this was a hallucination brought on by the endless hours spent bent over his desk; the stress of living up to his people's expectations of him hanging over his head like a blade, the string holding it up growing thinner and weaker the more exhausted he got. He wouldn't be at all surprised if that string had finally snapped. Failing that, it could simply be that the shape of the underground chamber augmented the sound of voices so that some poor soul similarly trapped there with them was made to sound like a voice from the past. _Rational explanations. We slipped from the realm of rational explanations a while ago, methinks._

But no, the accent and the unchangeably cheerful undertone to the voice confirmed beyond all audio doubt that it was a Hobbit heading towards them. The day could hardly get stranger.

"Aye." _Too high for Sam, and I'm not as far gone yet to believe that Frodo is here._ "Is it Merry or Pippin?"

His mind now having moved on to the idea that perhaps he had fallen asleep without noticing- and how could he tell, come to think of it, with this continuous darkness shrouding his eyes?- he jumped when the voice actually responded to his question.

"Merry, Strider- I mean, King Aragorn. What happened to you? Where are we? And what has happened to Lord Faramir?"

Despite himself Aragorn smiled, wincing as his dry lips cracked. "Peace, Master Meriadoc. Faramir is well; he is actually sleeping, so do not be too loud. We know not where we are, nor how we have come to be here. I assume that it is the same with you, Master Hobbit?"

"Aye." Merry was next to him now; he detected the Hobbit's faint warmth and the scent of pipeweed and good earth that always reminded him of the Shire. There was a long pause, in which Aragorn could feel the eyes gazing at him curiously. "Are- are you all right, King Aragorn?" Obviously the Hobbit could detect that there was something amiss.

Apart from the fact that we're trapped underground with no apparent way out and possibly hostile creatures, one of which froze a hardened soldier in terror by its gaze alone, a wry voice in his mind suppled.

Aragorn sighed, shifting a drawn Anduril on his lap. He had put the sword there so that, should anything attack them, he wouldn't have to fumble with the scabbard. Faramir had said that the area looked safe, and Aragorn was more likely to stab his Steward than their attacker, but it felt wrong to be 'standing guard' without a weapon at hand.

"I must confess to you, Master Meriadoc, that all is not well with me." Though it was definitely true- even Merry would see it as an understatement- it felt as if he was betraying a part of him by admitting it. He touched the corner of his right eye with the tip of his index finger. "I am blind, my friend. I can see naught but darkness."

Saying the words, even softly, made him shudder. Sitting there whilst his Steward slept, Aragorn had forced himself to confront the fact once and for all. He had rolled the words through his mind repeatedly. His years in the Wild had given him a streak of almost ruthless pragmatism to employ when the need arose, and in any case it would be ridiculous to ignore such a disability. Faramir didn't deserve his irritation, what with serious injuries of his own, and refusing to acknowledge his lack of sight was, to put it mildly, childish. His sight had not yet returned after several hours of coming into consciousness, and if there was a cure it would not be found in their current location, so he should get over the fact and try to work around it.

Unfortunately, these sensible thoughts kept being buffeted and blown off track by a shrill, inner worm of terror at the prospect of spending the rest of his life sightless. It was part of the repertoire of fears that all mortals had- fear of losing one's loved ones, fear of being paralysed, fear of losing a limb, fear of dying. They were not phobias, but rather ingredients in the recipe of life. To live was to risk each day, each moment to those fears. Aragorn had known this ever since he returned relatively unscathed from his first ever orc-hunt with his brothers. But perhaps, in seeing his dreams and hopes accomplished, he had developed a sort of arrogance, a conviction that the trials he had endured were the worst he was ever going to face.

Never seeing the sunlight again. Arwen's radiance lost to him forever, and any children they had being faceless entities to him. The world remaining in an endless night.

"My Lord?" A pair of small hands took hold of his shoulder and shook him gently. "Strider?" One hand rose to gingerly touch his face.

The unexpected physical contact suddenly made Merry real; the Hobbit really was there, it was not just the voice of madness. It was like an unbelievable dream materializing into physical reality. A loud sob suddenly broke from the blind King, and he realised that his face was already wet with tears.

That broke the dam, his mind drudging up all his memories of the Hobbit and parading it before him in one breathless torrent; from their first meeting that fateful night in Bree to when he left the party of Hobbits, Gandalf and Galadhrim at the Gap of Rohan. He remembered the youthful face, the high laughter that befitted the Hobbit's name, the sheer delight the little being took in the simple pleasures of life. For the Rangers who had spent time guarding the borders of the Shire- Aragorn had done his share of this- the Hobbits embodied an innocence that the races of Men and Elves had lost in their battles against the Shadow. Grief had no place in the hearts of Hobbits; this was what Frodo eventually came to understand, and he and Bilbo's departures were another step to preserving that lost dream.

Thus Men envy the Hobbits for their innocence, as Elves envy Men for their Gift.

Another memory emerged: he was standing in the Houses of Healing, looking down upon the still figure that had brought down the Witch-King of Angmar. His sheer wonder and amazement was further compounded by the realisation that Merry would eventually recover from the deed with little more than an occasional numbness in the right arm at a particular time of the year. _How terribly ironic, yet strangely fitting, _Aragorn had thought then, _that the downfall of the bane of a nation and a thousand men would be an enraged shieldmaiden of Rohan and an ignored Halfling of the Shire?_

The six years since their parting had undoubtedly marked Merry's features, but Aragorn could only see through his memories, his hands not yet being able to interpret into mental imagery more than the general shape of things. Thus the image in his mind, taken from his last memory of the Hobbit, gave him a sense that those six years had not really passed. Maybe that was all Merry ever would be, to him; a memory forever frozen, unchangeable because he would not dare sullying it with his imperfect imagination.

It was all just a dream. Arwen, Gondor… I do not deserve the light, so the darkness has claimed me.

As he drew a ragged breath, he suddenly felt tired, oh so tired. He blinked furiously, but the tears had been flowing for a while and would not be stopped. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had delivered Middle-Earth from the Shadow, had restored the line of Kings in Gondor and brought a general peace to the lands and peoples of Middle-Earth. But all that, he knew, he would not have accomplished without the efforts and sacrifices of so many others. Ever since becoming King he had worked tirelessly to ensure that those sacrifices were not made in vain, that he could accomplish all that had been expected of him.

But where had that got him?

Here, said his mind. _A blind man in a cold cave. _Right then, at that moment and place, that was all he was. No responsibility, no expectations, just a concerning friend who would not understand the point of the burden he had placed upon himself. He trembled, fighting the swell of emotion that was threatening to burst out from him. _This is pathetic!_ he mentally railed at himself. _Self-pity will help no-one! Pull yourself together, you wretched excuse for a King!_

, said his mind. Right then, at that moment and place, that was all he was. No responsibility, no expectations, just a concerning friend who would not understand the point of the burden he had placed upon himself. He trembled, fighting the swell of emotion that was threatening to burst out from him. he mentally railed at himself. 

He batted away at the grimy shadow of despair, and suddenly found himself beset on two fronts. Confused, he examined this other emotion, and found it to be… relief.

How long had it been since he had looked up at the stars and felt the free winds brush against his face? How many endless nights had been spent at his desk, or listening to a fool too caught up in his own illusions about his importance in the world? He could remember Legolas' words of concern; uttered just before… all this… happened.

"You need rest, Aragorn," said his friend of many, many years.

"I have been resting," he responded automatically, with his usual smile. It wasn't the first time the Elf had brought up the issue, and Legolas was not the only one to do so. "I haven't touched a single document during our trip to Emyn Arnen."

"Do not jest, my friend." A deceptively slender hand had grasped his shoulder. "There is a weight now behind your eyes. You are like an Ent that has taken root and become a tree in all but a few fading memories. Where is the Ranger that dared outrun a band of Mirkwood hunters? Where is the man that challenged Elladan to a duel and fought for four hours because he refused to wield?"

"If you would remember, my friend," he had replied with a smile. "I am no longer as young as I was then. Furthermore, I recall that both those incidents ended up with me on my back, staring up at insolently grinning Elves."

"The reason why I chose them for my examples. Tell me, Aragorn, did you expect to win when you began those endeavors?"

"Of course not!"

"Yet you still did them, because it is your nature to wonder if, after all, you can accomplish the impossible."

"I did beat Elladan eventually."

"Be silent for a moment, young King, and hear one who has seen a great many more years at court than yourself." So unused was he to hearing the power of Thranduil in Legolas' voice that all thought of jesting fled. "I know that as a Chieftain of the Dunedain, it was your duty to know each and every detail about your men. It was a challenge, I'm sure, and one that you managed very well. But the numbers of the Dunedain were so that it was feasible. I'm afraid that the same cannot be said concerning the White City."

"What do you mean?"

"You know very well; the twins speak far more cryptically than I do, and you were raised by Elrond Half-Elven. Whilst it is a fine thing for a ruler to manage every detail of his people's lives, it is simply not possible for a single man to do alone. You have a Council of Advisors, yet you still try to administer each and every detail concerning the running of the City. And though I approve of walking around the City yourself to see personally how the people are doing, you could employ a number of trusted Guards or attendants to do the same at different parts of the City instead of walking each Circle yourself. That's just an example. Minas Tirith is running very smoothly now, because it has a wise and kind King, but you are wearing yourself down. If you cannot see the worry in Arwen's eyes, than see it in mine, or Faramir's, or indeed all who love you and watch you burn yourself out."

He had been ready to dismiss Legolas' words, but it was not long after that that they'd been… attacked? Stepped into a hole in the ground to be savaged by some beast and left to die far from the Sun?

Something was thrust between his lips, and he tasted the sweet tang of fresh water.

"… you two look a downright mess, if I may say so, your Majesty, but I'll start on you as I don't want to be waking up Mr. Faramir when he's sleeping so peacefully. Now, I just need you to drink water… that's it…"

Water! Until that moment he hadn't realised how dry his throat had become. He gulped down the refreshing drink, but when he reached up to take hold of the waterskin a hand gently swatted his away. "If you drink too much you'll be sick, your Majesty. Told me so yourself, when we were walking to Rivendell, remember? Seems so long ago, but I remember most of the things you say, especially if they were about surviving in the Wild. Maybe I can repay you a bit for those times you defended us Hobbits, seeing as you're not quite in your right state of mind at the moment."

Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, mighty King of the Reunited Kingdom, was confused in every possible way a man could be confused. His heart was trying to stay on neutral ground between frustration and despair at their predicament, and relief in being unquestionably helpless. His body was crippled by his blindness and his barely-treated wounds, leaving him feeling quite disorientated and disembodied. His mind was in pieces, both unable to properly deal with his blindness and caught in a tangled web from his attempt to sort out his emotions.

But there was just something unchangeable, something unshakeable in a Hobbit's character that he couldn't help but be cheered by Merry's company. He knew that Hobbits were capable of the same depth of emotion as the other Races- he had had many a long talk with Frodo and Samwise whilst they were healing in Ithilien and during their subsequent stay in Minas Tirith- but one could feel that ingrained in their very being was the memory of the Sun brightly shining, of a life passed without incident, of a safe refuge to call home. To a Ranger, such a mindset was alien. Perhaps, Aragorn mused, that was why Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, loved the Shire-folk so much.

Smiling, he took comfort in Merry's easy chatter, and surrendered with some bemused exasperation to the fact that the Hobbit was determined to feed him fruit.

Elladan felt like one newly-awoken from a coma. His limbs were weak and heavy, and even small movements left him breathing hard and his heart thundering in his ears. But his mind was astonishingly clear, despite the intense weight upon his heart. It was as if he had taken a mortal wound, but by some healing art the poison that would kill him had been temporarily partitioned off.

"You do not know how it relieves me to see you in the world of the living, my friend," Éomer was saying to him. "But you do not look all that well still. Are you absolutely certain that you can manage here for a few hours?"

Even though he was the least able healer amongst the children of Elrond (Estel included), Elladan was quite certain that the answer to that question was 'No'. However, he could see the emotions that Éomer was trying to hide, and his heart was moved by the worry and anxiety the King of the Horse-Lords must be feeling about his sister. Furthermore, Arwen was out there also, and Elladan was equally certain that his body was in no condition to ride, much less chase after those two particular women in the dark.

"Yes, I am certain, Éomer. I am the Heir of the Lord of Imladris and I have stood at Estel's side ever since he came to the throne. I am sure that Lord Derinsul, the Heir of King Thranduil, will aid me should I falter. Go, and find my sister also. May the Valar guide your search," he replied, his breathy voice growing stronger by each word. Éomer gave him one last look of indecision, then bowed and hurried out.

So far Elladan had been avoiding Derinsul's incredulous stare, but in the silence after Éomer's departure it became more difficult to do so. He could guess the thoughts that must be going through the Sindar Elf's mind; some of the same questions ran through his own.

Sorting through his thoughts, he carefully tread around the issue of his twin. He was sure that, should he focus too much on the sudden emptiness in his heart, the partition that was holding off the darkness inescapable would shatter. But there were questions that one simply could not brush off.

Why did I not die?

The darkness pressed in on him, but he followed the thought through, employing a stubbornness worthy of his ancestry. _The only reason that I did not fade from the death of my brother,_ his father's voice came back to him, from a time when they were Elflings seated comfortably on their naneth's lap in front of the fire. _Is that we were separated by the Choice of the Half-Elven. The grace of Iluvatar protected me from the shock, for it is like a wound, only of the _fea_ rather than the _hroa_. Even then I fell into a deep sleep, as if one fading._

Elrond had never gone into much detail about his experience, and his children had believed in letting the past lie. But he did warn his twin sons. "The bond between your _fea_ is stronger than any between kin. But be wary; for even as it can pull one of you back from the very doorstep of death, so can the death of one bring the other into the darkness as well. Remember this each time you ride out to battle, my sons."

Therefore Elladan was not surprised he had collapsed as he did. What puzzled him was why he had come back. Thinking on it, he wondered if he had even heard the call of Mandos at all. It was as if… he frowned. He pictured it in his mind. The twin bond should have pulled his fea after his brother's. He _had_ become disconnected with his _hruin_, but his _fea_ had stayed in Middle-Earth, and instead of seeking the Halls, had wandered first in the world of Elven-dreams and then traveled to a place he associated with comfort and safety- his childhood room in Rivendell. Then something had intervened- could it really have been his father?- and he had returned to his hroa.

"You were fading," Derinsul finally said, his voice soft and disbelieving. "I could feel you slipping away. I had no hope for your return. And suddenly, you wake."

Despite the gravity of the situation Elladan smiled, amused at seeing the eldest son of Thranduil flustered. But the mirth was fleeting; he took a deep shaky breath, and attempted to stand. He had barely extended his legs when they gave way beneath him, and he fell back upon his bed. Elladan rubbed his temple with frustration.

"Derinsul, I must address my brother's advisors," he said, tensing his muscles for another attempt. "We must keep this secret for as long as possible. It must not be known that the White City stands without a King. And I worry not just about the hostile Men down South, but there is another, even greater danger afoot. Until we learn of its nature, it would be best not to put the City into a panic."

"I will aid you, though more for my brother than any great love of this City of Men," replied Derinsul derisively. "But whatever is happening here involves Legolas also, and I am determined to punish whatever had hurt him."

Elladan nodded, deciding that Derinsul's motives mattered less than his cooperation. "My thanks. Which reminds me- we should check up on Legolas and Gimli later on. But first, please help me put my uniform on and send out word that the King's Council is to be assembled."

Faramir's eyes flew open.

The images from his dream were still fresh in his mind. Trying to gather himself, he simply lay there, breathing hard, letting the dimly-illuminated cavern roof overhead and underground chill chase away the lingering horror.

By the Valar, I have awoken into another dream! Having turned his head, he gaped at the sight of an unmistakeable figure wiping at Aragorn's face with what must have been a white cloth before it was used to clean the Man's face.

"Frodo?" he whispered incredulously. "Am I awake?"

The Hobbit turned, and Faramir saw that he had been mistaken. The face was decidedly different, though still dismayingly familiar. "No, it is Merry, Lord Faramir. Meriadoc Brandybuck." Faramir nodded absently, wondering if there was any way to test that he wasn't still asleep, or experiencing a symptom of an internal brain injury. If it had been Frodo then he would be quite sure that he was hallucinating, as Frodo was far, far west from there, but then Merry's presence ranked only a smidgen more than Frodo's on the scale of possibility.

His musings were abruptly derailed when a pear was placed in his hands. For a long moment he only stared at it uncomprehendingly. Then his long-neglected stomach reminded him of the purpose of food, and he gingerly took a bite. The fruit was hardly fresh, but after the first bite he realised how hungry he was, and soon only the stalk was left, spared only because the Hobbit handed him a waterskin. He took a long draught.

Now that his hunger had been somewhat abated, his dream and his troubled thoughts began their siege anew. Handing the skin back to Merry, his eyes sought out Aragorn, and saw that the Man had fallen asleep. _Good, he needs the rest._ Faramir had been reluctant to sleep first, but his King was a great deal like Boromir, and he had recognised that tone of voice that brooked no argument. He wondered if he should relate his tale to Aragorn, but that was a decision that could be made when the exhausted Man awoke. For now there were other things to be wondered at.

Faramir turned his attention to the Hobbit, who was carefully covering Aragorn with a blanket. "How come you here, Master Meriadoc?"

The Hobbit moved back from the sleeping King and looked at Faramir critically. "I do not know, Prince Faramir. Or, rather, I can't remember. I was on the road with Pippin and Master Elrohir, on our way to Minas Tirith. The last thing I remember is setting up the camp for the night."

Faramir nodded. "We were returning to Minas Tirith also, from Ithilien." Suddenly his heart stopped, his mind was filled with the wind and hair golden in the breeze and stern eyes that reminded him of the sky reflected on a good blade. "Grace of the Valar… Éowyn," he whispered. He could see her in his mind's eye; her face worried, those keen eyes searching vainly for him. Or worse, thinking him dead and shedding her heart tear by tear, until the old winter in her heart returned unending. "I have to get back to her. If she thinks I am dead…"

He had not actually been aware he had spoken the words until Merry interjected. "Don't you worry, Lord Faramir; she won't believe you are dead unless she sees your body herself."

Of course… Faramir's heart sank even further. She would not stay in Emyn Arnen, either, once she heard that they had disappeared. Nay, she would search for them herself, if Beregond and Arwen didn't stop her. Endangering herself. Whatever had brought them there could attack her. "We have to get out of here."

Then he noticed that Merry was frowning, face scrunched up in concentration. "What is wrong, Master Meriadoc?"

"I can hear something… like a low rumbling…"

Éomer's heart was beating like the wings of a cornered bird as he urged his horse down the levels of the White City, his éored following closely behind him. Because of the hour, he could see people lighting up their oil lamps and lanterns and poking their heads out of their windows to see what the noise was about. Remembering the need to keep the peace in the City, Éomer tried to appear calm, as if he had suddenly had the urge to take his men out of the City for a nice moonlit ride. He couldn't keep a sardonic smile from his face, but his helm and the night hid it.

Éowyn, he mentally called out into the night that held more than darkness. _What have you done?_

, he mentally called out into the night that held more than darkness. 

They had passed through the Great Gate and were galloping down the Pelennor when the King of Rohan noticed the scent of rain in the wind. The tenseness of his mount confirmed that it was probably going to be a storm. The skill of reading the weather was important in the rolling hills of Rohan, where it was not unknown for a Rider in full armour to be struck down by lightning in the midst of a storm. Nevertheless nothing could have stopped Éomer at that point. He was on his steed, and a chase was at hand! Thus the éored approached the Rammas Echor and passed through the south-eastern gate, heading for the lands of Ithilien.

Author's Notes:

No excuses for my inability to update with any semblance of regularity, I'm afraid. For what it's worth, I'm really sorry to those who have been left hanging for a long time at the end of each chapter, and I sincerely hope that you're still with me. The support and encouragement has been great, and I'm immensely grateful to all those who found time to send them. Hope you like this chapter!

Reviewer Responses:

IceAngel7- Thank you so much! Characterization is always one of my biggest worries, and it's really heartening to hear that readers are convinced by the characters. I've often found that my perception of them changes with my own, so I also worry that the big time lapses between updates will produce incongruities in the characters. I'm a twins-fan, and they're the most unpredictable characters in this fic; I truly don't know what they're going to end up doing. Hopefully you'll stay with me to find out!

Sailor Taichichi Vegeta- Thank you for commenting after every chapter :-D it was very interesting to see a reader's initial reactions to the developments in each chapter. I'm sorry for the confusion, but I purposefully made the plot a hard one to unravel without all the information, and I plant bits of clues in each chapter. If it helps, there's more than one 'mystery Elf'. And Elrohir, as far as the reader is concerned, is dead. However, I'm sure that you've noticed that not all are what they seem. And Legolas is not actually blind… he's just not seeing what everyone else sees… it's an important difference ;-)

wellduh- I agree! I've always been fascinated by mirrors, and the notion that having someone take a picture of you takes away a bit of your soul. This was actually meant to be an adventure story (influence of Thundera, who writes them exceptionally well :-D) but I became more fascinated with the lore and the supernatural aspects of it (a notable influence of Ithilien and Maggie Theis), so now I'm hoping to blend the two. Thank you for your encouragement and faithful reviewing (not to mention reading)! _huggles_

- I agree! I've always been fascinated by mirrors, and the notion that having someone take a picture of you takes away a bit of your soul. This was actually meant to be an adventure story (influence of Thundera, who writes them exceptionally well :-D) but I became more fascinated with the lore and the supernatural aspects of it (a notable influence of Ithilien and Maggie Theis), so now I'm hoping to blend the two. Thank you for your encouragement and faithful reviewing (not to mention reading)! 

edeyle- _blushes_ Thank you very much! I hope it doesn't give you bad dreams, though. And as for Elrohir… well, if it's any comfort I'm just as unaware of to his fate as your are. He's my current favourite character though, so it'd be a shame if he was. But I guess you'll have to stick around and find out ;-)

- Thank you very much! I hope it doesn't give you bad dreams, though. And as for Elrohir… well, if it's any comfort I'm just as unaware of to his fate as your are. He's my current favourite character though, so it'd be a shame if he was. But I guess you'll have to stick around and find out ;-)

Lirenel- Thank you! I hope you're still reading!

Lady Lunas- Aye, you do ;-) Thank you very much for your kind words. I really don't know what's happened to Elrohir g I'll probably find out just before you do. The mysterious trapped Elves are part of the key to the whole thing- at least one of them is named in the Silmarillion. As for Aragorn and Faramir, the story is going to move towards them now.

unplugged32 (Chris)- Gosh, thanks so much! I can still remember when you started reading g It's been such a long time, I'm so grateful that you're still reading.

Jordy- It helped ;-) A great deal actually; the chapter is certainly longer than I intended for the chapters in this section. Hope you still like the story!


	17. Call of Moon

_'He will not wake again,' said Denethor. 'Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side-by-side?'  
_- The Pyre of Denethor, Book V of the Red Book of Westmarch

_**Call of Moon...**_

It was the first time Derinsul had seen the eldest son of Elrond employ the legendary Peredhil political skill. As Thranduil's Heir he had journeyed to Rivendell a number of times as an ambassador to his father, and had been repeatedly impressed by the way Lord Elrond could manipulate a difficult and complex situation to achieve the best results without provoking anyone to anger.

_It must be something to do with the eyes_, he thought distantly. All of Elrond's children had inherited his intense storm-grey eyes- even King Elessar, which had led to some confusion about the boy's parentage, or so the tales said- and the gaze did not so much as penetrate as insinuate itself into a person's mental capacities. Thus, one had a feeling that those eyes could see and sympathize with one's situation, and therefore any decision made _must _be for the best.

In the wrong hands, such an attribute could easily persuade men into doing evil with the utter conviction that it was right. Or perhaps not; there was also an inherent kindness and wisdom in that gaze that further improved the effect, which evil would surely harden and sour into arrogance..

However, skill or no, Derinsul's keen Elven eyes could see that Elladan was still quite weak. His stood stiffly, and moved as little as possible without arousing suspiscion. Derinsul got the impression that he was focusing all of his energy into his eyes, voice, and general power of persuasion.

"We understand, of course, that the King deserves some rest," said one advisor. In an Elven court Derinsul would not have been so careless as to neglect memorising their names, but a lingering disbelief at having Elladan not merely alive but up and walking had caused him to focus so much attention on the Half-Elf that he hadn't been listening at the start of the meeting. "In fact, a number of us have suggested for him to take a brief period of respite from his duties. But should he not have spoken to us personally first?"

_They are suspicious._ Not surprising, really, and Derinsul would have thought less of them if they had not noticed the glaringly obvious absence of Arwen_. Perhaps they suspectan Elven coup_, he thought with some amusement, barely managing to keep a small smile off his face. He was careful not to look directly at Elladan, however. He was certain enough of the Peredhel's skill to know that Elladan would not need his help in this arena, and their suspicions would not be allayed by shared glances between the two in the room with Elven blood. He wondered how Elladan would talk his way out of it, though. The advisers, hardened by years of experience at court as they were, had been surprisingly placate so far due to being caught off-balance by the sudden news and Elladan's diplomatic charisma, something which he had evidently not employed on them to its full extent, until now. Despite the late hour, there had only been minimal grumbling, and all eyes were wide awake and fixed on the son of Elrond.

Elladan merely smiled, and took a piece of folded parchment out from the thick garments (in the Rivendell colours often favoured by his father, fittingly enough) that he had donned for the meeting. Derinsul supposed it was both to hide any tremblings or weaknesses of movement, and for the warmth. He passed the document to the man on his immediate right, who held it up for all to see the personal seal of the King before breaking it. As he unfolded it, a smaller piece of parchment slipped out, which he picked up and read aloud first.

"''The bearer of this is Elladan Peredhil, Captain of the King's Guard and my brother. To him falls the guardianship of Minas Tirith should I and my Queen Undomiel be absent for any reason. I entrust this charge upon him in the confidence that he will keep the White City safe until my, or my heirs', return.'"

This incited some murmuring and drawn heads amongst the advisers, the most activity the Mirkwood Elf had seen in them thus far. Derinsul gave into temptation and cast a scrutinizing gaze at Elladan, but the Half-Elf's face was carefully expressionless. The same man picked up the main sheet of parchment, and read,

"Hail, my illustrious Ministers and faithful Advisers,

I know that my actions are inexcusable, but I fear that the burdens of office have become considerably great, of late. I have gone for a brief time to rest. I have made arrangements for the guardianship of the City in my absence. Please forgive my sudden departure, and my abandonment of thee without prior warning. But I am only a man, and as one do I appeal to you."

"It is written and signed in his hand, with his personal seal at the bottom," ended the advisor, carefully folding the parchment up again. The tension in the room decreased somewhat, though the letter was passed around until every man had seen it and confirmed that it was, indeed, the Elessar's writing.

"I hope you forgive our initial suspicion, Lord Elladan," said another adviser, who looked to be the oldest man in the room. "But Gondor has not had a King for a long while, and-"

"And you say that Queen Arwen has gone to him?" interrupted another adviser. Derinsul could see Elladan gathering himself for a prolonged debate. And they were only buying time, though the Valar only know how the current situation was going to be resolved. Yet they had no choice; anything else would put Minas Tirith at risk. At least during the reign of the Stewards, it was clear who held the rule. Familial relations to the King nonewithstanding, Elladan _was _the best person remaining to be in charge of the City. He had stood by his brother's side for a great part of the time since the Elessar's coronation, and before that had served under his father, a member of the Wise Council itself. They would have entrusted the advisors with the truth, but there were some present who were not as discreet with their tongues as a matter of such import required for them to be.

"I suppose they are in Ithilien, then?" said one man near Derinsul.

"I'm afraid he does not wish for his whereabouts to be known," said Elladan, then added with a small smile, "At the behest of Lord Faramir."

_Encourage their suspiscions without explicitely confirming them, _the Sindar prince thought approvingly. _And in the same stroke, drop in a name that still inspires more confidence in some areas of the City than Elessar's; some of these men had seen the Steward in his swaddling clothes._

It was then that Derinsul suffered a rare premonition. Or perhaps it shouldn't be called as such. But as the events of the day swept him along like a helpless fish in a strong river, at the back of his mind he had been working away at the confusing riddle that fate had landed them in. He was no closer to an answer, but a metaphorical verse had yielded a fragment of the answer.

_Legolas._

With the legendary stealth of his kindred, he slipped out of the room and raced down the stone hallways of the Citadel. Fortunately, the unearthly hour meant that very few souls were awake, and he achieved the Houses of Healing a mere few minutes since leaving informal council. But even as he stepped into the silent building, he knew. He looked into the room, anyway, and confirmed that they were gone. He entered and touched the rumpled sheets. A slight trace of warmth, which meant that they had probably left within the half-hour.

_They could not have gone_ _far_, his racing mind told him. They must have taken a horse, Legolas being in that state. And the Dwarf would not risk worsening the injuries by moving fast. Of course, taking someone who had just survived a brush with death out of a warm bed and into the cold night air, not to mention exposing him to what had nearly killed him in the first place, would probably qualify as risking him.

He barely noticed the rain as he walked out of the building. _I should have simply stayed with him_, he berated himself, oscillating between a rising rage at the accursed Dwarf and a near overwhelming fear for his brother. _Whatever madness has befallen this City, I shall get my brother out of it!_

He was about to head for the stables when he heard his name being called out. He frowned, just realising how heavily the rain was falling when he couldn't make out who the approaching figure was. "I am here!" he called. _And my brother is out _there_. When I get my hands on that Naugrim! This downpour is enough carry Legolas off to the Halls of Mandos!_

"Crown Prince Derinsul?" as the figure got nearer, Derinsul saw that it was one of the two Elves who had accompanied him to Minas Tirith. He had almost forgotten them, in the confusion of the day.

"Aye, Thavron, it is I," he replied in Sindarin. "Is anything amiss?"

"I am not sure, my Prince. But the Lord Elladan has just collapsed, my Lord, and he calls for you."

Derinsul inwardly groaned. His duty was to his kin, first, and his brother was out there, somewhere- Valar only knew _why_- but Elladan needed him to stay in the City. Maybe he should have stopped Éomer from leaving, but back then he had not anticipated having to chase down a Dwarf who had spirited his brother away. But could he, in good conscience, abandon Elladan? For a moment, he simply stood there, staring out into the darkness. In his mind he replayed the sequence of events that had led to this moment, and took comfort in the knowledge that, even in hindsight, he could not have done anything any differently. Now he had a choice.

In his battles against the Shadow in his father's realm in Mirkwood, it was a common fear amongst the Elves that they would be forced to choose between saving loved ones and the greater good of the people. _That_ Shadow had gone, but it seemed that another had taken its place, and fate was requiring such a decision from Derinsul now.

It was easy, really. The Men of Gondor were not his people, Minas Tirith was not his City. His only ties to it were his brother's love of the King. Legolas was his youngest brother, whom he had sworn to protect with his life even before the babe had been old enough to understand his oath. This did not even take into account his emotions in the matter. He could still remember Legolas as a young elfling- his first steps, his first shy song on a winter solstice, his tears after his first orc-slaying. He looked around him, and wondered what he was doing there, a Wood-Elf in a city of cold stone, whose people he could not care a whit about in the face of the loss of his brother.

In his darkest hours during the War of the Ring, he had conjured worse scenarios than this, worse choices for fate to demand of him. He wondered why the Valar chose to test him now.

Nodding to Thavron, he did as his heart bid him.

* * *

_What am I doing?_ said a voice

_Thank you, Éowyn, for being braver than I could ever be_, said another.

_Estel!_ cried a third.

The spattering rain suited her mood perfectly. She cared little for the growing weariness of the horses, or the treacherous darkness that hid rabbit-holes or other obstacles that could cause their mounts to throw them off. Dimly she heard Éowyn's continuous pleas to stop.

"Arwen! The horses are getting tired! We cannot see the ground below us in this darkness! Whatever your intentions may have been, I for one do not wish to go willingly into the arms of death!"

_She worries about death_. Arwen wanted to laugh. Death! To be mortal is to die; why does it matter so much?

The blow came out of nowhere. Such was the force of it that Arwen felt herself slide dangerously to one side of her saddle, which was already slippery from the rain. Her hands loosened their death-grip on the reins; she felt her steed slow down under the skilful handling of the shieldmaiden of Rohan. For several heartbeats she could see white sparks in her vision; she laughed wildly at the thought of the stars themselves descending to berate her.

She thought she could hear them chanting. _Death_.

Éowyn winced as she rubbed her fist. It was really not appropriate for ladies to engage in such rough activities, but growing up in an almost exclusively male household and patriarchal society had imparted onto her a partiality for a more physical method of bringing sense to people when sweet verbal diplomacy was not having the desired effect. After all, there was no time on a battlefield to coddle a warrior's mental crisis. Of course, the only people who she had ever dared perform such ministrations on had been her brother and cousin. Yet Faramir's indulgence of her desire for sword-play had kept her arms strong, so she had had to pull the punch a little lest she sent the Queen of Gondor out of her saddle.

She gazed worriedly at said Queen, who was looking and behaving as anything but. Arwen was giggling insensibly, staring into the darkness with the gaze of one watching an entertaining show. It was an eerie sight that sent shivers down Éowyn's spine. As a great part of the men-folk of Rohan and Ithilien were in the country's fighting force, Éowyn had had extensive experience with consoling widows and orphans after the arrival of the latest tidings from the battle-front. But she was at a loss as to how one could begin addressing Arwen's half-grief. What could she say that the daughter of Elrond would not have said to herself already? She had conceded to this reckless journey out of the protective City walls out of fear that constraining Arwen would cause even more harm, but with every passing moment the Lady of Emyn Arnen regretted her choice even more.

Yet now that they had escaped the City, now that they were free to roam the open lands before them… her Rohirric blood sang with anticipation. A horse needed only good, authoritative direction- there were no politics, no masquerading required here.

She frowned up at the sky. The rain was increasing in intensity by the heartbeat. It had been dangerous enough for two able riders to come out here in the dark, but add rain and one of the riders recently becoming incapacitated, the risks for injury or even worse trouble grew too great. She shook her head heavily, knowing that she would have to face a very angry brother on their return and she would deserve eacn word of rebuke.

_You took advantage of Arwen's instability_, an inner voice whispered. _You thought you were saving her from coming out here on her own, but isn't that just an excuse to do what you've been longing to do? A real friend would have kept her in the City, where she would be safe._

"That's not true," she whispered, hands trembling. Unheeded, her horse skittered nervously beneath her. "Confining her would have destroyed her!"

_Your doubt betrays you_, the malicious voice continued. _And now you're in even greater danger. You have delivered her to the darkness._

"Éowyn!"

She let out a breath, part relief and part dread, at the familiar albeit understandably agitated voice of her brother. Whatever madness had driven her thus far had retreated at the realization of how much she was endangering them both. Even Éowyn the Shield-maiden understood limits; she simply chose not to be cumbered by them if the danger was only to herself.

"Éowyn!"

Despite the dark and rain, Éowyn had no trouble pinpointing the direction of the horse-hooves. The reins of Arwen's steed firmly in hand, she considered going to meet her brother, but decided that it was probably safer to stay where they were and have Éomer come to them. She frowned at the horses; they radiated nervousness like the Sun. Whilst a measure of it could be attributed to the dark and the rain, both the horses were Rohan-bred, gifts from her brother for their respective weddings, and the rolling plains of the Riddermark endured far worse weather than this. As skittish as they were now, she knew with her birth people's blood that it was only their strict training and her façade of calm that was preventing them from bolting back the way they came.

_If you deign to ride a horse, little one_, floated Theoden's fatherly voice across the decades. _You must show yourself to be calm at all times. Be calm, and the steed will be calm; be certain, and the steed will be certain. Show courage, and the horse will have no fear. That is the lore of your forefathers, o daughter of the Eorlingas!_

"Éomer!" she called out in response. "Éomer, we are here!"

The hooves came. But instead of being comforted by the approach of familiar company, their steeds seemed to become even more fearful. Arwen's condition hardly aided her horse in remaining calm, yet Eowyn's own steed began dancing about uncertainly.

"Hush, dear Thalion," she smiled briefly, both at the irony of the name at the moment and the memory of Faramir naming the colt. She leaned forward slightly to stroke the horse's elegant neck.

Several things happened at once.

Arwen's horse seemed to sense her distraction, and seized the opportunity to suddenly pull back, causing Eowyn to lose hold of its reins. At the same time, Eomer and his party located them, though so focused was Éowyn on Arwen's runaway steed that she hardly noticed them.

Nor did she notice the _other_ new arrival, whose stench reminded the horses of the evil that their ancient ancestors in the North had fled from, back when their race was young. Though such a thing had not shadowed their pastures for two Ages, their blood remembered better than memory ever could, and sped through their bodies in terror.

The King of Rohan cried out "Éowyn!" at the same time as Arwen screamed.

Éowyn's head spun around, first at her brother's call, then at the sound of her companion's fear. Only, Arwen was no longer within her visibility range, though she thought she could hear the other's panicked horse. Her own steed was dancing about, defying years of strict instruction and training. The rain made everything slippery, and she shivered, though she wasn't entirely sure it was from the cold. Her breathing was rushed and harsh, though not as much as her heart. A deep fear welled up within her, an unnamed dread that struck her primal core. It would have overwhelmed her, had she not felt it before...

_"I am not a man!"_

... Éowyn- all of Éowyn, this time- struck out, driving the fear that seemed to had enveloped the world out of her mind. She suddenly knew where Arwen was, where her brother and his eored were... and that which stood in their midst. A predator of the old world. Unseen, unknown- unseeable and unknowable, save for eyes that had gazed at a similar evil before. Like hers.

Thus it languidly stalked towards the mounted Riders, not heeding the powerful legs of the horses, for though the beasts could not see it, they knew the scent of a predator. To their credit, the Rohirrim were not so quick to dismiss their horses' fear. Many a Rider owed his life to the bond between him and his horse, and these men, all of whom were , were appointed so for being the best in all the Mark. So they were extremely wary, with half having drawn their weapons and the other with their hands on the hilts. At the centre was Eomer, whose eyes were darting about, trying to find the threat in the darkness. Eowyn was sure that the creature would target him. She doubted it understood the superficial markings of rank that her brother wore on his person, but there were other ways of determining who was the leader of a group. And as most predators would seek out the weakest of the herd, this one, she was sure, the _ultimate _predator, would not be contented with anything less than the leader, with the possibility of taking down the entire herd with him.

Yet at the same instant as the full weight of her gaze fell upon it and perceived it in truth, the creature paused, and turned to gaze at her in turn. It seemed to regard her uncertainly.

"Leave them be," floated the whisper past her numb lips. It could not have heard her- the rain was pouring in a vertical torrent now, and her words could not have carried past an arm's length had it been a clear day with the wind going in the right direction- but mayhaps it understood her defiance. A defiance that had no base, for she quaked both in heart and body, and never had she been more aware of being a weak, defenseless mortal woman than in that moment when a nightmare from another age hesitated to determine if she was a threat.

A heartbeat of stillness. And then it sped off. But not away, though Éowyn did not register it until it was too late.

"Arwen!" she screamed, but no sound issued from the darkness where she had seen the Queen of Gondor last. Until frantic hoofbeats gave a moment's warning before Arwen's steed galloped past her.

_You gave her to Death on a silver plate._

On instinct, she urged her reluctant steed forwards, using the horse's fear as direction. She was only vaguely aware of Éomer calling after her, following her though he was similarly troubled by his own horse. Eventually they reached a point where the horse steadfastedly refused to take another step further, though Éowyn had even deigned to sharply slap its rear. Making a mental note to apologise to her faithful steed for her ill treatment of him even though he was going againt all instincts to aid her, she quickly dismounted and attempted to make out her surroundings in the near pitch-black.

She was in a patch of wood. She could not be entirely certain of their location, but they had been en route to Emyn Arnen, intending to find the place where the massacre of the Guards had taken place. The idea seemed inifinitely more absurd without the sorrowful and fear-filled eyes of Arwen holding her responsible for their husbands remaining lost. Now that she felt quite certain about what had killed the Guards, she wondered if something was exerting a negative influence on the White City. Certainly, things had been far from normal of late, though as far as she knew it was still confined to certain inhabitants of the Citadel; the everyday lives of the people did not seem to have been disrupted.

But if that creature got into the City...

Something broke beneath her feet.

* * *

Despite his apparent convertion to Elfdom- as some of his more polite Dwarf-miners put it- Gimli still retained some measure of Dwarven distrust towards things that could not be fully confirmed by the senses. Dreams had an elusive quality that he could come to accept; apparitions that he alone could see started up the sound of the traditional warning bells- from his youth in the deep mines- that alerted all of gas being found. He suspected that there was another force at work, influencing him into uncharacteristic trustfulness. Or maybe he was just an aging Dwarf who had suddenly found that a Dragon had invaded his halls and was being asked by a rickety old man to put his faith in a Hobbit that, whatever the man might claim, had obviously never step foot outside of his Shire. Gimli found the analogy amusing, and even mustered up a half-smile. _Though _he _is by no means a rickety old man, _he thought bemusedly. _Certainly not a Man, and who had ever heard of a rickety Elf? Yet I wager that he is old. Very old._

The Hobbit, in this case, was Legolas. That sobered Gimli up once more; at this moment, he would trust Bilbo Baggins thrice more than Legolas in his current condition. And it was not as if Thorin had been fond of Baggins at the start!

He sighed, realising that he really was in need of sleep. Beneath them, Arod seemed uneasy. At least that made him more acquiescant towards Gimli than usual, though the horse must be wondering why it was his master's incompetent friend who was steering him. He was also being good-natured at having to pull a small cart, a task that, in Gimli's experience, trained warhorses seemed to resent. Then again, Gimli had made sure that Arod glimpsed the ashen face of Legolas in the cart before pulling the Elf's hood up. He wondered if the horse had assumed that he was taking Legolas to help, and thus had decided to trust him. It made Gimli feel more wretched, for with every passing moment the sense grew that he was doing the worst thing possible.

Common sense alone said so. Legolas had had a brush with death so near that in some moments Gimli still wondered at his being alive at all. He had barely had time to recover, and hadn't even regained full use of his limbs yet. He was warm and as safe as he could be anywhere in Middle-Earth. And what had the brash Dwarf done? Heeded a phantom into taking him out of the Houses of Healing and into a night that may well still contain whatever it was that had nearly sent Legolas to his death in the first place!

"On the other hand," he muttered under his breath. "Dwarves neither dream as Elves do, nor converse with the dead of other Races. What are the chances that Legolas' faithful steed would get a stone in his shoe on the eve of their departure for Ithilien and thus be left behind? If it were not for that, Arod would be lying dead with the rest of the Guard, for he would never have abandoned Legolas. A chill made its way down the Dwarf's spine as he considered that he would not have trusted any other horse with what he was doing now; if it had not been for his trust and experience with Arod, Gimli's worries would have prevented him from making it out of the White City. Yet surely coincidence only went so far?

The rain hardly eased his anxieties. At least the stolen cart, having come from the special stables of the Houses of Healing, came with a tarp which he had quickly pulled over the opening and secured. A small covered lantern was the only light, but Gimli wondered if he might as well extinguish it, for it hardly illuminated anything through the curtain of rain and would more likely lead trouble to them.

"Even in these days of peace, I'd never thought I would travel east thus, with only my axe and a sick Elf for protection," he said aloud.

He heard a soft chuckle, and saw a glimmer of that golden hair. "Now I see the Dwarf! Forgive me, I had wondered if your friend has driven all of the Naugrim out of you, Master Gimli. But your distrust is also wise, for one should never follow another blindly, save when there is no other choice."

"That is my worry- that I have another choice besides this and I am too blinded by my grief and fear to see it."

"Perhaps there is, but not one which you would wish to take. Even now, _Feredir _is hunting. There is not much time. Yet I daresay you are more at risk than the Sindar prince; the poison has changed his scent and marked him as one of the Shadow, or at least something that Feredir should not concern himself with."

Gimli felt his hands go cold. "We are not looking for the Mirrors, are we?"

"You are," the voice had become quieter. "But it is more likely that _Feredir _will find you first. And it is something that you should hope for; it will get you to the Mirrors faster than looking for one of the entrances on this side of the Ephel Duath."

"But... it will kill me..."

"It may not. There is more to being _elvellon _than the name, though in these fading days they matter little. But remember that you face a contraption of the First Age, and the creatures of the Shadow then could detect the presence of a wandering Elf a week after the Elf's passing. From their entrance into the living world, Morgoth's creatures detested all that is Elven, or has been graced by the powers in the West. It did not kill Legolas, though it could have easily done so. It may not kill you."

Gimli looked back the way they came, but realised that returning was futile. He could not be certain of the way, and chances are that the creature was already on their trail. He wanted to be angry at the voice, but found that his heart was filling with fear. He struggled to calm his breathing, but the roar of the rain and the black of the night deprived him of anything to anchor himself to. Then, a phantom hand rested on his shoulder, applying a feather's weight of pressure.

"It may not kill you. But... are you willing to die for him?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

There is no reason good enough to justify my not updating this chapter for so long. It's mostly due to a lack of organisational ability, procrastination, the occasional writing block, and this being my last year of secondary school. I have had a lot of things on my plate recently, and despite my great love of writing, have had to push it down to the bottom of my priorities. Finally an e-mail from Lita of Jupiter (hugs) reminded me that I have an obligation to finish this story, which is taking far longer than I had ever expected it to. For my part, I'm extremely sorry. I hope that y'all have had a good Christmas vacation, and a belated Happy New Year 2005! huggles galore

I've edited the previous chapter a little, after finding a few typos (cringe) and irregularities in the sentence structures. More action coming up next! And I know... I'm writing, I'm writing!

PS- An especially big HUG to Lita of Jupiter for poking me back into writing.

**IceAngel7- **Thanks sweets glomps I had been intending to have a scene with the three of them in this chapter, but it was getting rather long, and I thought it'd make a good finishing scene for the next chapter. So hope you're still around then g

**Lirenel-** Not so much action yet, but there's a big one coming up in the next chapter. If you mean a fight scene, however, I assure you that there will be some, once they're a little further into the caverns and meet the nastier thing inside. Thanks!

**kiss316- **pats Yes, can get rather silly sometimes Thank you so much for your heartening words; I'm a great lover of the twins, myself, and was strangely heartbroken when I made that choice concerning Elrohir. But don't despair yet, for even I'm not sure of what really has become of him. I love Legolas and Gimli too, and I'm looking forward to writing some fluffier scenes between them soon. Thank you very much!!

**unplugged32-** Aaaw, thanks sweets, I hope you're still there!

**Cosmic Castaway-** Initial intentions nonewithstanding, I'm sorry that it took such a long time for me to update. Thank you for taking the time to tell me you like it!

**Thundera Tiger-** glomptacklehugs Considering the fact that I absolutely idolize you and your fics, your review very nearly made me cry! I had to pause and breathe every other sentence! THANK YOU SOOO MUCH, you fanfic-writing genius you! If I blush any harder I'll turn into a tomato. Many sincere, extreme apologies for my very slow pace. I really do try, but life conspires to get in the way g. I really hope that I manage to maintain the standard and quality that you've come to expect (though I certainly don't see it :-P). Anyways, I was mostly maneuvering everyone into position, though I am also building up to something, but it's in the next chapter! evil snicker Once again, thank you so very, very much for being so supportive and a constant reader and reviewer. The hope of reading more of your work can be the only reason I get up on my darker days, and to have you like my writing so is truly one of the high points of my life. Thank you!

**Jordy- **Glad to hear it, sweets! Thank you! Yes, this is turning into a mystery/ supernatural fic, which is certainly not something I had intended when I started writing it. g

**aimless-37-** I love Elrohir too, though that may not bode well for his prospects ;-) Thank you for your kind words, I am worried that I'll lose the enthusiasim for this fic (as I have before in other fics guilty grin) but so long as I've got wonderful readers like you wanting to read more, I'll keep writing!

**Nightwing6-** Yay, the characters are indeed being moved into position, which is why I'm strangely having everyone on the move all the sudden. After all, most of the action will be taking place inside the caverns. Thank you, and I hope you keep reading!

**Mystwing-** To be honest, I myself am not sure about Elrohir ;-) I hope that he's OK too, as I love the twins. It was always my intent to keep everyone guessing, though, so if you're confused, then you're right where you should be ;-) Thanks for reviewing!

**KaliedescopeCat- **I am quite fond of Faramir and Aragorn as characters, and I look forward to exploring their relationship in the midst of all this very strange stuff happening to them. Thank you, and I hope you'll keep reading!


	18. for Song of Sun

_"… yet fëa and hrondo (> hröa) are not the same things; and though the fëa cannot be broken or desingtegrated by any violence without, the hrondo (> hröa) can be hurt and may be utterly destroyed."  
_- Morgoth's Ring, HoME

**… for Song of Sun **

It was dark, and the air was stale and musty. He was just coherent enough to register that he was considerably less comfortable now than he had been an hour before. The surface beneath him was hard and unsmooth against his protesting back. He was tightly swaddled in layers of blanket, made of a rough material which made his sweaty skin itch. He was glad for it, though, for what little skin he had exposed to the open air felt icy cold. The constant movement of the world caused his head to throb. A bitter after-taste of the potion that had been forced into him reminded him of why he could not slip back into much yearned-for sleep. He would have felt resentful of the situation if he were capable of feeling anything; he thought it only odd that he had to be given the potion in the first place.

_Most of the time, sleep brings healing,_the words floated by. _But in some situations, it eases the journey to Mandos. _

Well, _that_ explains everything, then. Strange that he could not even remember who had said it.

After a while, his vision slowly sharpened, and he became increasingly more aware of his surroundings. At first he could focus only on his discomfort, but eventually his senses picked up other things, and the discomfort was shunted to the side by the new sensations. The roar of water. The sharp scent of rain. The movement that he could now recognise as the rocking of a carefully driven cart rolling across soaked, uneven ground. A tarp had been draped over the presumed cart, though it was weighed down now in the middle by the rainwater that had collected on it. Distantly, he thought he could detect the presence of trees, but that sense seemed to have been obscured, remaining in his grasp for only a few minutes at a time before slipping away to hover just beyond his reach.

Once he had taken in as much of his present external environment as he could, he turned inwards, once more deigning to contemplate his situation and the events that had led to it. The latter in particular was quite difficult to ascertain, as it felt like the brother of the raincloud that was currently unleashing its vengeance above him had moved into his head. He tried piecing together what fragments of memory he could find in his befuddled mind, though did so with a growing feeling of dread and fear. The fear nearly made him hesitate in his mental efforts, but his pride pushed him to continue before that hesitation turned to fear. Youngest son of Thranduil, one of the Nine Walkers- he was no stranger to horrors, and felt that nothing could be worse than being afraid of discovering why he was afraid. A fear of almost anything could be overcome, if one had a strong enough will and a good enough reason, but he had seen a fear of fear undo the stoutest of warriors.

He regretted these thoughts as soon as he got a glimpse of the source of his fear, but the small chink in the barrier his mind had built to protect him caused the whole thing to collapse with a metaphorical sigh of 'I told you so'.

Bile rose up his throat, and he would have started retching if his body hadn't been occupied with more important things like shivering violently and attempting to turn itself inside out. His flesh itched beneath his skin; he thought the sound of breaking glass echoed still in his ears. His breathing quickened into panicked gasps as his hands began vigorously scratching at the naked skin of his arms.

"Legolas!" Distantly he heard a heartfelt curse, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting a muddy puddle. Strong hands seized his wrists and forced them away. He struggled, but his muscles didn't seem to have the strength he remembered them to have.

"_I cenedril!_" he moaned, thrashing against the bulk of the person holding him down. "_I naeg en heledh!_"

His captor said something, but he was beyond all hearing. He fought despite the growing pain from his limbs, the spots of red that had begun appearing on his clothes. At a particularly forceful spasm, the other person was nearly thrown off, and something flew out from underneath his captor's shirt.

Legolas froze, his eyes honing in on the object. Mortal eyes would have difficulty seeing it at all, but to his Elven senses the object seemed to shine with a light of its own. And deep in his mind Legolas knew he had seen it many times before, for he had been present when the token was given to Gimli.

All the tension left his muscles, and he suddenly slumped, blinking when his head bounced slightly on the wooden surface he was lying on. He felt… something… leave him, fleeing in a burst of terror and hatred. He wanted to laugh in relief.

"Gimli," he said wonderingly, gazing blearily up at the concerned brown eyes. Brown the colour ofgood, dark, fertile soil."The Dwarf who came to love the Elves. What a legend we might have been, five hundred years from now."

"Legolas?" One hand warily left his wrist to rest against his forehead, as if testing his temperature.

"You chased him away," Legolas mumbled, vision blurring. "You chased him away when I could not. I am sorry… you were always the stronger one…"

"I will not tolerate such talk from you, Elfling," his friend grumbled, the hand moving to tap him lightly on one cheek. "Neither of us is dead, yet, And I swear to you, I will find a way to make you better. You would have done better to keep company with another Elf- I daresay you would not be in this mess if you had- but you chose me. It's about time I did something to earn it!"

The son of Thranduil frowned, and he slowly raised one hand to press a finger lightly on the Dwarf's wrinkled brow. "I never understood why Dwarves do not like to be seen weeping outside of a battlefield or a burial." He opened his mouth to say something further, but a scent caught his nose that sent his stomach rolling again. "Gimli, there is something out there."

To his surprise, Gimli nodded and quickly wiped his face with a dirty sleeve. Confusion rising, it was only then that Legolas thought to ask, "Why are we outside?"

The Dwarf refused to meet his eyes. "Something was happening to you, my friend. I feared you were dying. I was told that the only way to save you was to bring you to the source of all this." Some of his usual grumpiness returned. "Now I wonder if I had done the right thing," he said darkly.

For once, it was Legolas who felt puzzled, and looked to Gimli for further explanation. "The source? And who told you?"

Before Gimli could answer, a figure materialized out of the night. Another time, Legolas might have taken a while to identify the Elf, even though the shining golden hair and the bright light of Aman in his eyes narrowed down the possibilities considerably. But the nightmares, the crystal glinting like a tiny star next to Gimli's heart, and the fact that the raindrops appeared to be passing right through the figure conjured up a single, unbelievable name.

* * *

"This is utter madness!" 

From the oversized chair he was currently resting in, Elladan opened one eye to glance at the eldest son of Thranduil. Derinsul occupied a slightly smaller chair, but unlike Elladan his shoulders were ungracefully slumped, and he had buried his face in his hands.

Though he did not say anything, the Lord of Rivendell empathized completely with Derinsul. He himself felt quite adrift in a sea of strange events and even stranger explanations, and that coupled with the strange hole he could feel inside of him gave him a very disturbing sense of disorientation. He determinedly prevented his thoughts from focusing on it. Fortunately, his hale _hroa_ recovered quickly from the brief loss of _fea_, and what weariness he felt now was that of the mind and spirit.

Returning his attention to Derinsul, Elladan couldn't help feeling astonished still that the Wood-Elf had returned after discovering Legolas and Gimli gone. For all that he trusted the Dwarf, Elladan concurred that Gimli must have moved Legolas, for despite his unnaturally quick recovery- something which, to the warrior within Elladan, hinted that there was something else wrong with the prince- the youngest son of Thranduil could not possibly have been able to leave on his own power yet. Elladan had sent a servant to check on Arod, but something told him that the horse would be reported missing from the stables.

"Thank you for coming back, Derinsul," he said quietly. "I know it must have been hard."

Derinsul nodded, eyes gazing distantly at the warm fire in front of them. "It would have been foolish, in any case, to go haring after them when I have not a clue as to which direction they would be heading. And Legolas had always wanted me to trust _him_." No need to ask who he meant. Derinsul looked at Elladan. "How are you faring?"

"As well as I can be," Elladan replied truthfully, shifting positions a little in his chair. "And, aye, this is madness. But my father always said that even when the Shadow triumphs, when sun and moon and stars disappear, when the world as we know it is broken and changed, the final defeat is to surrender ourselves. We must hold to our oaths and our duties, even to the very end." He would give up everything he possessed to hear his father's comforting voice and sage advice now! "And at this moment, the only thing I know for certain is that my duty is here, to guard the Kingdom that Estel fought so hard to earn the right to rule."

"Can you imagine our fathers' faces?" said Derinsul dryly. "Their eldest sons and heirs, secretly ruling a Kingdom of Men. I wager your grandsire, at least, must be doubled over in mirth somewhere above us."

The image made Elladan laugh. "It does make one wonder if the Valar have a rather convoluted sense of humour," he chuckled, and surprised himself by laughing further. It sounded too much like the desperate laughter of soldiers who knew that they marched to their deaths, but it empowered him a little, and chased the dark depression back.

Suddenly the door to the private sitting room crashed open, admitting in a soaked and wild-looking Éomer. Derinsul and Elladan launched to their feet in alarm.

Together they managed to get him into a chair and sipping hot spiced wine, though at the last it took a bit of manhandling after gentle, coaxing words didn't produce any results. Once seated, his ramblings took on a semblance of coherency. Eventually they ascertained that he had managed to find his errant sister and the Queen of Gondor, and had followed after them, until…

"A dark shape took off with Lady Arwen," Derinsul repeated incredulously. "Lady Éowyn followed, but was suddenly swallowed up by the ground?"

Éomer flushed. "It is difficult to believe, but by my honour that is what I saw!"

"Peace, King of the Mark," said Elladan soothingly, refilling his wine cup and casting a pointed look at Derinsul. "It is not that we doubt your word or your honour, but… you must understand why we are finding it difficult to envision this?"

Éomer shook his head, wild eyes darting around the room. "I followed Éowyn to the very spot where she disappeared. The men of my eored saw it, also, and I had them search out the area. But we found nothing, save some small shards of glass. I did all I could!" Downing the wine, he slammed the cup down and would have gotten up if it weren't for Derinsul's hands holding him down by the shoulders. "I must go back out there! I must find her!"

Elladan firmly placed his hands on either side of Éomer's head, and bent down to gaze searchingly into the Man's eyes. He saw a great deal of fear, understandably, and shock, but behind that Éomer's mind seemed whole and alert, albeit a little overwhelmed. "We will find your sister," he said, exerting more calm and determination than he himself felt. "No power on Middle-Earth or beyond it can stop us. But you are in shock, and your body is in need of rest. You will be worse than useless to her if you get yourself and your men killed in the rain out there." He would have reminded the Rohirric King of what had happened to Aragorn's guard, but didn't want to antagonize Éomer further by introducing the possibility that his sister might already be dead.

Ai, but this was truly madness!

Fortunately, and to the Half-Elf's continuing surprise, Derinsul seemed to have shared his line of thought, and pitted the legendary stubbornness of Thranduil against the mule-headedness of the men of Rohan. With the advantage of centuries of practice, Derinsul eventually steered Éomer out of the door and towards his rooms, where he would undoubtedly set a couple of guards to make sure that the man would not try to escape.

Elladan was gazing out the window when he heard Derinsul return. "At least one of us will be of the Race of Men," he commented.

Derinsul gave a humorless chuckle. "Aye, what a merry band of rulers we will be. The King of Rohan, a Wood-Elf, and a Half-Elf, ruling Elendil's City of the Sun. Was there ever a stranger jest made by Maia or Valar?"

* * *

Something was circling them, somewhere within the curtain of rain. 

"You have done well to have trusted me this far, Master Dwarf." The Elf's voice held a note of urgency now, which did nothing at all to sooth Gimli's increasing nerves. "Listen carefully now. My guiding of you is as much interference as the Lords of the West will permit themselves. The world is changing, and whether for better or for worse must be entirely in the hands of Men. But the Mirrors are a creation of the First Age, from He of whom Sauron was only a Lieutenant. It cannot be allowed to continue existing, for its presence alone will tip the world towards the Shadow."

Gimli felt a comforting hand come to rest on his shoulder, though his eyes saw nothing but a faint mist. "You, a child of the Third Age, cannot hope to withstand the power that has been put into the Mirrors."

Potential danger to Gimli seemed to draw Legolas out of his state of shock. "And yet you would have him face it?" he demanded from where he lay in the stolen cart, then looked embarrassed for his outburst.

"I would, for the children of Aulë are said to be hardier than all the other Races," said the Elf kindly. "But he will be safer than the rest of you. In my houseless form I cannot pass through the outer barrier, so he shall bring me inside."

A growl sounded not too far away, sending a shiver of primal fear up Gimli's spine. He saw Legolas pale further, so that he was almost stark white in the darkness. "I remember…" that normally melodious voice whispered hoarsely. "I heard it, just before… the blood, the pain… how could I have forgotten the very sound of fear…"

A dark shape materialized out of the night for a single frozen moment. The insubstantial hand that had been resting on his shoulder plunged into him, so that he was enclosed in golden warmth. He heard the sound of birds singing in the distance. Ice-cold fingers closed about his arm, and he turned his suddenly heavy head to gaze helplessly at the expression of horror on Legolas' face. He thought he could smell the metallic tint of blood, and wanted to shout to Legolas, _Lie back down, you are re-opening your wounds._

A grey mist descended between them. He absently heard Arod's terrified whinny, but it felt like it was coming from a dream, from which he was now slowly awakening.

The last thing he heard before he left the dream was his dearest friend's scream.

"Gimli! Lord Felagund!"

**END OF PART II **

**

* * *

****Author's Note: **

I guess at this rate, we'll finish this story in about twenty years blushes My sincere, heartfelt thanks to everyone who's stayed, you're the reason I'm still writing. If you want to give me an extra prod, don't hesitate to stop by my LiveJournal.

Incidentally, 'To Follow an Elf' tends to be more up-to-date on Stories of Arda. I'm considering putting this up on the Open Scrolls Archive, and if I do, I'll probably update it more often there. Formatting on gives me a headache.

This is probably of little consolation to those who've waited so long for an update, but I think that this is one of those stories that grow with the story-teller. When I first began MitM, I had no clear plan beyond the first handful of chapters. Even at my last update, I still wasn't sure how I was going to end it. But time brings experience, and I think I know how this needs to end now. Just bear with me until then.

Once again, **a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year** to everyone!

**Reviewer Responses **

Wow, there's been quite a build-up! Nevertheless I shall endeavor to answer all of them J

**kiss316-**Thank you! And interesting that you used the analogy of 'chess pieces', because I was trying to convey a feeling of there being stronger forces at work. Plus, it's the only way to keep one's sanity with so many characters to think about.

**edeyle-**I'm prone to lurking, myself, so I am very flattered that you liked my story enough to come out and comment. I can only hope it continues to meet your expectations!

**Thundera Tiger-**I think my ego burst about half-way through reading your review and killed me Thank you ever so much, as your very kind and flattering words always boost my rather reedy sense of self-esteem. I know I'll be walking around with a silly grin for days, now. Actually, I still can't believe that a talented and acclaimed author such as yourself bows to the Queen of Complicated Politics likes my giant knot of a story. My main worry is that I make everything too supernatural and angsty- after all, there are only so many voices a person can take- but your words have assured me that I haven't lost the thread completely. Interesting that you noticed a similarity between Eowyn and Derinsul. I must confess that that wasn't on purpose, but I'm not really in control of the narrative half the time. Oh, the rain has another purpose, which will be seen when we next go to Faramir, Aragorn and Merry. I'm quite terrified now of making a big mess of this monster of a story, but the plot has a mind of its own, so I guess we'll see where it takes us.

And the fact that you like how I portray Gimli does me great honour, for it was thee who made me see him as more than "the Dwarf in the Fellowship". I love him to bits now huggles

**Cosmic Castaway-**Thank you, I hope you're still out there somewhere! This time it was less of writer's block and more of getting caught up in a host of other matters (a new fic being the least pressing of them) but I still find it difficult to write this unless I am in the right frame of mind.

**GreyWolfEyes-**Wow, your two reviews really blew me away! And yay for a fellow Thundera Tiger obsessive! Your views concerning Arwen are interesting, and I do agree to some extent with your frustration. I believe that she's a potentially stronger character than the movies and books made her out to be, and even now I'm still trying to flesh her out. But I think that she should be more than just the love of Aragorn, and fortunately the scenario I've created in this story gives her an opportunity to act for herself. And you can tell that I love Gimli because I've just given him a pivotal role in the whole thing. Concerning Elladan with the advisors, what happens is that Arwen earlier tells them that Aragorn is missing. Later on, Elladan explains that the reason Aragorn is missing is that he's decided to go on a holiday, and that Arwen's gone with him (this explains her absence). Thank you very, very much for your wonderful reviews!

**AM-**It's still continuing! Just very, very slowly. Thank you for dropping by. No, though there will be plenty of hallucinations later. Well, how can you tell a hallucination, really? And in case you didn't figure it out in this chapter, Arwen and Eowyn have gone to join our merry men underground.

**Jordy-**I'm still alive! And I hope you're not too sad, as the year still hasn't ended! runs in case any rotten vegetables are forthcoming Thank you for taking the time to comment! The fate of Elrohir will be shown in the next chapter, which is another Interlude.

**Purduegirl-**blushes like a sunburnt turnip Thank you so very much, sweets! I think I'm a bit young to consider professional writing, though it's an option for the future since I love it so much. I hope you're still around and liking this J

**ArWen of sMirkwood-**Thanks, that's good! I can't wait to see how it goes, either

**Nightwing6-**I hope you're still around and with a working computer! Thank you very much, yes, I just turned 18 this June. It's a relief to hear that my bouts of silliness and fangurl-ism haven't slithered into my writing. Take care, nice to hear from you again!

**Alisha B.-**Your review left me speechless for a good five minutes! I feel extremely flattered and honoured to have received such a long and thorough response from someone who clearly has strong (book-based?) sense of Tolkien's characters. Thank you for taking the time to write such an articulate review! Similarly, this must be one of the best reviews I've ever received, even more so because you also pointed out some concerns. The most important of which, I believe, is more development for Eomer's character. Looking back, I realize that I have not been giving as much page-time as the other characters. I hope you do not mind too much that I've brought him back into the City, but rest assured he'll be fighting for attention as much as Elladan and Derinsul. And thanks for mentioning the formatting, the introduction of horizontal rules was a bit of a headache, and I suspect I might update faster if FF was less problematic.

Suffice to say that I hope you're still around here reading, and you continue to like what you read! Please do continue to be honest in your reviews, as it gives me a clearer idea on what to work on instead of continuing to flounder in the dark and hope everyone's happy.

**siege-**Thank you! I try, really I do, but sometimes life sets the pace for you. If you hang in there, though, everything will be explained in due time.

**Deana-**LOL, thanks, maybe another one?

**huggeroftrees-**I'm still writing, it's just going very slowly. Thanks for coming by, I hope you continue to like it.

**bogumil-** Thanks! Sorry, here it is now, guess your poke did it, eh? And my boo-boo about the title, I meant to write "Lord of Northern Ithilien". Thanks for pointing it out to me, I'll fix it as soon as lets me!


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